


A Wandmaker's Lessons on Apothecary

by Penny32



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Aurors, Department of Mysteries, F/M, Gen, Herbology, Potions, Wandlore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2018-03-11
Packaged: 2018-09-24 12:28:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 31,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9726917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Penny32/pseuds/Penny32
Summary: “If you are any wizard at all you will be able to channel your magic through almost any instrument. The best results, however, must always come where there is the strongest affinity between wizard and wand. These connections are complex. An initial attraction, and then a mutual quest for experience, the wand learning from the wizard, the wizard from the wand.”― J.K. Rowling





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: JK Rowling has creative rights to all characters. Her writings and notes were used as references for the majority of this work.

Hermione cocked her head to the side, closing her eyes so that she could better hear the thrum of the wood in her hands. It was a resonant, hollow sound, echoing deeply with an emptiness that needed to be filled. She shifted, barely aware that she needed to keep her long sleeves away from the candles flickering on the small wooden desk. 

She had all but forgotten her audience- the old, wizened man in the corner had become quite still. His eyes were sharp and knowing, watching her very carefully. He wondered how deeply she felt the wand’s nature and then wondered if it was enough. No muggle-born bloodline had ever created a wandmaker for at least 4 generations. She would be the first, if she succeeded. 

Her hands stroked the fine grain of the caramel-colored wood, eyes still closed as she listened and thought. The wand reminded her of thunder, a deep sound that filled the air and faded quickly. It needed heat, fire and lightening for substance, for balance; and, she paused… her eyes opened. This wand needed a core of fire and fear. 

She laid the wand wood down, her fingers lingering, marveling at the thunder she could still feel. Her voice when she spoke was quiet, even. This wand would serve a dark wizard. “Dragon heartstring.” She looked at Ollivander, meeting his blank stare. “Dragon heartstring from a Peruvian Vipertooth.”

After a moment of silence, Hermione shifted uncomfortably. Ollivander remained stoic and seemed increasingly disinclined to move. She swallowed and thought perhaps she needed to prove she wasn’t quite uninformed in wand lore. “The wand is made of yew. Yew wands are considered to be rare and occasionally notorious. It is said that they can endow the witch or wizard they bind to with the power of life and death. It is particularly favored for dueling and cursing. These wands rarely choose mediocre owners… and this particular wand- with the way it resonates, most certainly will not.”

Ollivander deigned to raise an eyebrow. “What kind of wizard do you think this wand, with its core of Peruvian Vipertooth heartstring, will bind to?”

Hermione looked away, at the slim boxes stacked high all around her, knowing that if she concentrated and opened her mind, she would hear the other wands. She looked back at the old man after a moment. “A dark wizard will use this wand… but, there is no way of knowing what choices this wizard will make. Whatever said choices may be, this is the wand which will allow him to best focus his magic.”

“Him?” Ollivander’s other eyebrow rose, a keen light shining in his eye.

Hermione shrugged, sensing she had passed his test… possibly. Maybe. She hoped. “The wood and core feel… It feels masculine.”

Ollivander struck his cane to the ground, the sound sharp in the quiet of his empty shop. He rose slowly. “Would you wager your life on it?”

The former Gryffindor gave a sideways glance to the wood, listening once more. “Yes.”

Ollivander let out a bark of a laugh. “You young ones are always so sure.” He paused, picking up the wand wood and peering at it in the candlelight, shadows moving like wraiths over the wrinkles of his face. “What length do you make of this one?”

Hermione hadn’t been focusing on length when she had listened; but, he wouldn’t have asked her if he didn’t think she knew. This particular wandmaker had been notorious for kicking out potential apprentices immediately. She would have been politely turned away at this point if he thought her an idiot. “The dragon heartstring which resonates best with the wood will tell us, I think.” 

She cursed immediately after saying that. It was foolish to sound unsure around this man. He was going to kick her out any second after that brilliant response.

He didn’t though, instead he turned the wood over in his hands. “Do you think it matters if we use a male or female dragon’s heartstring for this wand?”

She cursed again, freeing her hair from the quill that she had used to create a makeshift bun at the nape of her neck. Her hair tumbled down around her shoulders and she instinctively relaxed. She may have failed but at least she didn’t make a fool of herself. “I do not know, Mr. Ollivander. I have never read such a thing in wand lore.” 

Ollivander put the wood down. “This will not be the first wand you make.” 

Hermione’s mouth dropped open, her eyes started to shine. She had passed his test? 

“These things have power you know, Ms. Granger?” The old man blithely ignored the bright smile on the young witch’s face, turning away to lead her up shaky stairs to the workroom above. “The first time one practices their art, the first time one hold’s their wand, thoughts, emotions, weather, spells, everything- the world around us has power in these moments. What we do can color our actions and the way our wands respond to us for years, sometimes forever. We cannot color your first wandmaking with the ferocity of this wand... but, another, I think… equally powerful will do.” 

Hermione squealed happily on the inside.

They stopped in front of an old, carved wooden door and Ollivander reached back to take Hermione’s hand. He pressed it against the engraving of a small flower at the center of a beautiful geometric pattern. Magic flared and the curly-haired witch gasped, her gaze spotting with darkness as the air was sucked out of the world. The entire shop seemed to gasp and then the air rushed back in, the magic sank back into the door. 

Ollivander’s hand was shaking when he let Hermione’s go. “There. The shop knows you now.” 

Hermione’s knees wobbled as she followed him into the room. “How many years have those spells been done and redone?”

“Four and a half centuries, Ms. Granger. That particular door was designed and spelled by my great, great grandfather.” He waved his wand and candles all around the room flared to life. Hermione smiled, the workshop was quite cozy, all warm woods and comfortable chairs with open workspaces and books and scrolls strewn about. There were a few paintings on the walls. Most of the portraits were snoozing. “We will discuss, later, the use of woods from around the world for wand work, although typically wandmakers use the resources from their particular geographic location in order to create their wands.”

“Why?” she asked, gently lifting an old piece of parchment that looked half burnt as Ollivander carefully placed the yew wood on a mahogany stained work table. 

Ollivander let out another bark of a laugh. “Questions later, Ms. Granger. First, let us hone your listening skills.”  
Hermione’s eyes gleamed with curiosity as her new Master held out a box to her.

~*~  
A/N: Please let me know what you guys think! It's a work in progress.


	2. Chapter 2

A dream doesn’t become reality through magic; it takes sweat, determination, and hard work. –Colin Powell

On her third day studying wand woods, Hermione found herself confused and irritated. The curly-haired witch frowned down at the wood in her hand, her eyebrows crinkling together as she tried to figure out why the wood was so… cantankerous. 

The second she had opened her magical sense to it, she had heard a cacophony- like an orchestra tuning up, something uncontrolled and utterly, bloody-well obnoxious. She huffed and tried again only to close her sense as soon as she had started. “This thing is annoying,” she mumbled before she could stop herself. 

She glanced up but luckily Ollivander had gone down the stairs. He seemed to be able to sense whenever a customer was due into his shop and always managed to get there in time to make a mysterious entrance. 

“That is an acacia wand,” one of the portraits replied gruffly. She looked up- it was the one that was always snoring. His mustache was most impressive, dark brown flecked with gray. “Abraxas Ollivander, Ms. Granger. My great grandson never properly introduced us. He needs a wallop- forgetting his manners in such a way.”

Hermione smiled and nodded her head deeply. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Abraxas. How do you do this lovely morning?”

He gave a laugh that was half a huff and shifted in his frame so that he could peer at the wood in her hands more closely. “Quite well, my dear. Come, let’s have a looksee at that wood. What did you hear, hmm?”

She wondered how he knew she listened as opposed to saw… although it was ultimately more of a feeling than anything else. She walked closer and waved her wand so that some of the levitating candles could shed light for the portrait. “I heard noise… raucous, uncontrolled noise.”

The portrait’s eyes were painted the most piercing gray and she shivered at the striking intelligence in them. She had seen that look before- in Voldemort’s eyes, in Malfoy’s, and her own. The portrait leaned closer in the frame and she wondered if he had been a Slytherin. “Did it sound like… madness?”

Hermione shifted on her heels, cocked her head to the side. Her curls drifted across her shoulder, tickling her skin with their movement. “In a way, I suppose. I couldn’t stand to listen to it long enough to really tell.” 

“You must, my dear. That is the only way to know.” The portrait shook his head gruffly, mustache twitching. “Ollivander’s has never backed down from the challenge of a wandmaking. You will not be the first to break our tradition, girl.”

Hermione frowned at the portrait. Most definitely a Slytherin.

“Actually, great-grandfather, we are more selective of our wands these days. The price of madness is too high for the making of a single wand whose owner will be equally mad.” Ollivander held his hand out and Hermione gave him the wood. He focused on it for a second and then threw it into the fire where it exploded into red flame. The scent of blood and smoke made her cover her nose. After a moment, Ollivander spoke. “Such wands, when they look like that, will force the wizard making it into a very dark place, Ms. Granger. We, here at Ollivander’s, do not make such wands.” 

“Apparently that’s how I died- went mad from the making of such a wand.” Abraxas huffed and got back into a comfortable position against the frame. “Poppycock, nonsense.”

“Why did you tell me to open myself to it again if you had died from such a making?” Hermione asked, oddly hurt by this portrait’s uncaring malice.

“It’s a challenge, dear girl! One should never back down from a challenge!” Abraxas harrumphed and then determinedly closed his eyes.

Ollivander smiled. “One should also pick one’s fights wisely. You already know that lesson, Ms. Granger.”

Hermione nodded, glancing out the window and then freezing. “It’s already night fall?” 

“Yes, Ms. Granger. I have closed the shop for the evening. The boy received a hawthorn wand with a unicorn tail hair. It was rather unremarkable. He may very well be an asparagus root farmer.”

Hermione stifled a laugh at her mentor’s irritation regarding unremarkability. “It’s not every day a Harry Potter can walk into your shop, Ollivander.”

“No. I suppose not.” He gave his bark laugh and then frowned, his limpid eyes going to the window. His gaze sharpened. “Please, apparate home. It is not safe out- something feels… wrong in the air. Not quite the same as before,” he sought to calm the look of alarm on her face, “but some element of darkness is drifting through London tonight. It is not the wand wood you were recently studying.” Ollivander’s hands clenched his cane, his gaze focusing on whatever he was sensing. After a heartbeat, he turned to her. “Good night, Ms. Granger.”

“Good night, Ollivander.” She picked up her robe and wand, fixing Grimmauld Place in her mind’s eye. 

“Oh and Ms. Granger? Have some chocolate this evening, with hazelnut if you can manage. The madness of that wood will have given you a nasty headache.” Ollivander lifted his wand and the candles went out. 

Two pops and the work room became silent once more, filled with the quiet snoring of the Ollivander family portraits. 

~*~Later that evening~*~

Hermione’s eyes closed in bliss as she sank into the hot bath she had prepared, the scent of mint and lavender rising gently from the bubbly water. Her curls gleamed auburn in the half light of the third floor bathing room of Grimmauld Place. The room was dark and shadowed, but cozily so, lit by a fire that flickered cheerily over the warm reds and creams she had used to decorate. 

She was and would always be a Gryffindor.

Grimmauld Place looked nothing like what it had once resembled under Sirius’ care. She, Harry, and Ron had worked together after the war to refurnish the old, magical house so that it gleamed. They had embedded within it spells of cleanliness and goodwill, balancing the cruelty and bloodlust of the last few members of the Black family to live there. 

Even Kreacher had agreed that the house had regained the lustre of centuries past, shocking them with his age. They shouldn’t have been surprised since house-elves tended to have long lives; but, their only experience had been Dobby who had been so young when he died. Hermione had been less shocked than Harry and Ron to see that Kreacher had regained some youthfulness with the cleansing of the house. 

His magic had been tied to the house for centuries- when it felt better, he felt better. Harry and Ron had been unnerved by it but she had somehow managed to explain it to them; although she suspected they had just agreed with her for the sake of ease. She had let it go, of course. Much of what she was learning was hard to put into words. Magic was so curious and odd when one tried to apply logic or reason to it. It was a strangely intuitive essence and the more she learned wandlore, the more things that would have once mystified her- like the house cleansing and Kreacher’s renewed health, became clear.

A bubble drifted up and popped in front of her and Hermione let out a chuckle. Her thoughts were meandering... it was nice after a long day of training with Ollivander and the headache from that ridiculous wand. 

Still, she sighed. There was so, so much to learn of the craft she had chosen. Ollivander was not a harsh master but neither was he easy. He knew so much that she struggled to keep up and retain what she learned every day. 

Even Ron, whom she had gone to for insight after the first two days of training, knew little of the secrets of wandmaking. Despite having grown up around magic, the making of a wand was magic to her red-haired best friend.

She let out another little laugh at the irony, blowing at some of the bubbles drifting near her shoulder. 

The stairs below creaked and Hermione stiffened then relaxed- it was Kreacher’s tread. She smiled softly when she heard him singing. It was nice to know that even a person like Kreacher, who had been so abused in the past, could still sing. 

She had given up on her quest for House-Elf freedom long ago, finally understanding that for some, their work was an element of their magic. The contract between the home and the elf was what held some- not the master and the elf, like Kreacher. Curiously, Kreacher and Winky had told her that the elf had the potential to banish the master from the house if they thought the master was hurting the house. 

She wondered if wands had the same ability and realized she would have to ask Ollivander. 

She sighed again. 

There was so much she didn’t know.

“Miss?” Kreacher poked his head into the bath, breaking her thoughts. “I have brought Miss some of her favorite wine. Miss had a long day.” 

Hermione smiled as Kreacher conjured a small table for the wine glass. Her heart melted a bit. He’d even brought her some hazelnut chocolates after hearing of her headache. “Thank you, Kreacher. You are wonderful.”

“Of course, Miss.” Kreacher turned to go. Hermione was pleased to see that he had obtained a new shirt and pants- one of Winky’s gifts. 

“Wait, Kreacher,” Hermione shifted so that the bubbles were completely covering her, “Does the house…” she paused, searching for the right words, “speak to you?”

Kreacher cocked his head to the side. “Speak, Miss?”

Hermione shook her head, thinking on how to ask her thoughts. Why was magic so not-logical? “A house-elf is tied to his house, correct?”

Kreacher nodded, holding his tray and scratching his head. 

“And the house-elf has the ability to banish the master if the master is not treating the house properly, yes?”

Kreacher nodded again. “Yes, Miss.”

“How do you know if the house is being treated properly? Is it just physical damage? Or can you feel it?” Hermione wondered if she sounded crazy- asking an elf if he could feel houses. She tucked a stray curl behind one of her ears, her brown eyes trained on the elf before her.

Kreacher nodded. “We feels it, Miss. The house is my friend. If it feels bad, I feel bad.”

Hermione nodded. “Does it feel good now, Kreacher? It’s been a while since we helped you with the upkeep spells.”

Kreacher nodded. “The house feels good, Miss. Much, much better.”

Hermione smiled. “Thank you again, Kreacher. Have a good night.”

Kreacher turned away once more. “Good night, Miss Hermy.”

Hermione studied her hands and wondered if elf magic was similar to wandmaking. 

She sighed. 

There was so much she didn’t know.


	3. Chapter 3

~*~ Week 1, Day 6 of Training ~*~

A loud bang startled Hermione so hard she almost fell out of her chair. Her wand was out and pointed at the door before Ollivander had even blinked. 

“Relax, Ms. Granger.” Ollivander’s voice was loud in the sudden stillness of the room. “Put your wand down. There is no danger here.”

Hermione blinked and shifted herself out of a dueling pose, letting out a slow breath. She looked down and away from her mentor’s sharp eyes, suddenly ashamed. Her hands weren’t shaking despite the adrenaline that had just shot through her. Her breath was calm. There had been no thought to her response- just reaction. It was a miracle she hadn’t let loose a spell and broken something or hurt Ollivander.

She blinked back tears, trying to calm her racing heart, to still the lists of defensive and offensive spells racing through her mind. She felt almost broken when the torrent of adrenaline wouldn’t stop. She felt like she needed to be running, like she needed to be fighting. Magic flared beneath her skin and through her veins, rising like a tide to funnel through her wand, through her very skin against an enemy.

An enemy that was not there. There was no enemy. No enemy.

She dropped her wand and put her hands over her eyes. Deep breath in. Deep breath out. Over and over until the magic had faded and her heartrate had returned to normal. She sighed, staring at the floor, wondering… How was she to function in society again with such violent instincts?

She had thought her instincts would revert to normal after the war had ended… apparently not.

Was she broken?

“It was probably just an accident at the Weasley place. Shall we go and see?” Ollivander picked up his fallen cane, a wizened hand lifting Hermione’s chin. He smiled at her. “Ice cream and a walk always helps with these sorts of things, Ms. Granger. Come.”

Hermione picked up her wand, relaxing as the familiar feel of the wood calmed her, balanced the flow of magic in her body. After a heartbeat, she followed Ollivander down the shaky stairs and out the door, carefully turning the sign to closed. 

When she turned around, she saw that Ollivander was lifting his face to the late winter sun, a faint smile on his face. Hermione frowned, hyperaware of the crowded street around them, of the faint scent of smoke coming from the left. 

She looked and sure enough, smoke was billowing from the mouth of the Weasley shop clown. People were coughing and laughing and then coughing some more outside the shop. The sight of familiar red hair had her relaxing just slightly. 

“Ginny!” she called out, taking the quill out of her bun and letting her hair tumble free again. She hadn't known her old friend was visiting. She conjured up a scarf for Ollivander and returned his smile when he put it on. “What happened?”

Her red haired friend turned around, still chuckling. Her words came out between her laughter. “Dean’s son tried mixing Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder with Explosive Jellybeans!”

Lee Jordan, the manager of Weasley Wizard Wheezes came up behind Ginny, covered in dark powder and smelling like smoky sugar. “He was trying to create an ingestive form of darkness powder for sneaking around. Brilliant idea, really… just not in enclosed spaces.”

Ollivander let out a little cough at the smoke. “I imagine it may be a little bit of a mess to clean up.”

“Yeah, probably… I’m more worried about any thieves; but, I managed to make that idea of yours work, Hermione- back from Dumbledore’s Army days.” Jordan laughed when he caught sight of pimples erupting across a young man’s face. “Just a tic- you have to actually buy that if you want those pimples to go away, young one.”

Ollivander blinked. “Who’s he calling young one? He’s barely out of diapers himself.”

Hermione and Ginny laughed. 

“I’ll be sure to tell him that, Mr. Ollivander.” Ginny waved goodbye as she ran to catch another kid with the word sneak on her face. “Hold on right there, missy!”

Ollivander’s eyebrow had risen at the number of children waiting patiently for the shop to air itself out. “I suppose a good joke does go a long way.”

Hermione smiled, a bit sadly as she looked up at the bright clown face. The smoke was fading. “Yes, it does. Those two were the greatest pranksters I had ever met.”

“The war took much from us all, my girl.” Ollivander looked down the street and a twinkle came into his eye. “Come, it is cold out. I think I would prefer tea instead of ice cream today. The Leaky Cauldron will do.” 

Hermione stopped a kid with a levicorpus spell as he sprinted out of the mouth of the shop with his hands full, then hurried to catch up. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw silver blonde hair catch another young girl and wondered at Malfoy’s assistance for a family he had grown up hating.

She shook thoughts of him away- he always reminded her of the war, and entered the gloom of The Leaky Cauldron, waiting a tic for her eyes to adjust. When they had, she found the erstwhile white hair of her mentor seated at a small table with another older wizard. 

She made her way over to them, ordering a pot of tea and a plate of sandwiches on the way. 

Ollivander stood up when she arrived, a traditional courtesy that she wasn’t quite used to. She blushed when his associate did as well. “Ms. Granger, please allow me to introduce you to Marcelus Aviane. He is the great great grand-son of Kronos Aviane, the famed vampire of the Swiss mountains. He is also a remarkable trader and journeyman. He consults with the French Ministry on matters which require the council of Beauxbaton’s Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor.” 

Hermione smiled at the tall, dark-haired man, reaching out her hand for a shake and blushing more when he lifted it for a kiss. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance Mr. Aviane.”

“Please, call me Marcelus, Ms. Granger.” His voice was gravelly, as if he used it often for shouting. Her mother would have said he had the voice of a military man. 

“Please call me Hermione, Marcelus.” She smiled when he smiled and sat down next to Ollivander. 

Their tea floated over to them and settled at the center of the table. Hermione poured while Ollivander and Marcelus resumed their discussion on dragon heart imports. She listened avidly as the talk turned to Peruvian Vipertooth hearts. 

“There are none that I know of that are causing enough trouble to warrant killing at this time, Ollivander. There was one that was harvested after a rampage killed four villagers in Kazakhstan a few months ago. There may be some dragon heart string left for you to purchase.” Marcelus smiled at Hermione. “Be careful as well. Your pretty secretary may fall to the venom of the Vipertooth if you’re not careful with its handling.”

Ollivander chuckled. “My apprentice is a quick learner. The wand that requires this heart string will be her creation.” 

Marcelus looked surprised and Hermione felt her ire growing by the minute at his blatant sexism. She had realized long ago that muggles were much better about gender equality than wizards. “Dragon heartstrings are difficult to tame to wand magic and the Vipertooth is the most vicious of breeds. It’s a man-killer.”

Hermione smiled and nodded towards her mentor. “I have the best teacher in the world from which to learn such an art.”

The French trader agreed. She noticed his eyes were a muddy green, a strange color that would have appeared hazel if he had not been wearing a forest green coat. It looked like Hagrid’s coat with pockets everywhere. 

She wondered what he hid in them and whether he knew it didn’t make his eyes look as green as he wished. 

Ollivander tapped his cane, breaking the two out of their observations. “Have you anything else of interest, Marcelus?” 

Marcelus grinned. “You may bash my head in for recommending this to you, Ollivander. In fact, I know you will; but, I think I should show you anyway.” He pulled a small vial out of one of his coat pockets. It was small and plain, the liquid inside an ordinary yellow-gold. “This is cardamom oil. The wandmakers of India use it to revitalize old wands and to offer energy to tired wizards for spellwork.”

Hermione’s eyebrow rose. She lifted the vial, carefully pulling out the stopper and taking a whiff. It was strong, spicy. She opened that other sense she used when she was listening to wand woods and closed her eyes. 

She heard war drums, beating a rhythm as old as life itself, a sensation that flew up through her toes and made her want to sink into an unknown, untamable allure. It was an addictive sensation, a primal caress, a feeling that reminded her of silks and skin and sweat. Her mouth parted.

The oil felt like heat, primal and sensual- a heat that could drive one to the brink of madness with overuse; but, if used correctly, it would draw out one’s deepest desires.

She opened her eyes and closed her senses, clearing her throat. “It is powerful.”

Ollivander was looking at Marcelus, his mouth in a firm line. He held out his hand after a moment and Hermione placed the vial in it. 

Marcelus was still staring so Hermione cleared her throat again and tucked her hair behind her ear. She took a sip of her tea while Ollivander listened… or saw. He was staring at it more so than listening. After a heartbeat, Marcelus seemed to snap out of it and turned instead to his tea. 

“Ms. Granger,” Ollivander’s voice was soft, she suspected he was still listening to the nuances of the oil, “do you think this will change or augment the nature of a wand?”

She frowned thoughtfully down at her tea. “I think it would depend on the wand, Ollivander. This oil would work for some woods; but, not for others. The oil may work for some pairings; but, not all.” 

Marcelus choked on his tea and they both blinked at him. “Sorry.” 

Hermione saw his neck turn red and blushed, wondering if it was something she had said. Whatever. She turned back to her mentor. “I think we would have to see how it resonates with the core of the wand, will it give only heat or does it have other uses? What will it do with a phoenix feather core which are already temperamental? A dragon heartstring core may become unstable if we use this… or it may become even more powerful. What would it do in the hands of a Veela-descendent?”

Ollivander nodded, his eyes still focused on the vial. He rose to leave, gathering his cane and putting on his robe. “We will purchase this, Marcelus. How much would you like?”

Marcelus smiled as Hermione put her robe on. “No charge. Consider it a gift- for your lovely new apprentice.”

Hermione barely kept herself from glowering at the innuendo. Slimeball. She gave him a practiced smile, something she had picked up from the Beauxbaton girls. “Thank you, Marcelus.” 

“Until next time, Marcelus.” Ollivander tipped his hat and they walked back towards Diagon Alley. 

Ollivander waited until they were outside to give Hermione the vial back. His eyes twinkled when he looked at her. “An interesting find; but, we won’t be using it just yet. You must learn the basics first.”

She nodded easily, watching her breath fog in the air. “Of course.”

Ollivander raised his face to the lukewarm sun and the air still vaguely scented of smoke and Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder. “You have the ability to feel, Ms. Granger… but you must be careful of who you show this to.”

Hermione ran her fingers through her curls, straightening them when the wind brushed them wayward. She raised an eyebrow when Ollivander looked at her. 

He huffed. “Yes, you are muggle-born… you may not know.” He sighed and she smiled when she realized he was feeling awkward. “It is a trait sought after by the old families… for the future of their blood. Mr. Aviane’s family would have such inclinations.” 

Her smile disappeared and she coughed into her hand. Oh. Her face turned crimson. “Thank you for telling me, Ollivander.”

“He forgets to stand for ladies unless he is reminded to do so.” Ollivander’s gaze held a touch of sardonic humor and she found herself laughing. 

“I will keep that in mind.”

“See that you do, Ms. Granger.”


	4. Chapter 4

True friendship can afford true knowledge. It does not depend on darkness and ignorance. –Henry David Thoreau

The air smelled sweetest after a thunderstorm, fresh and cool and clean. Every time it rained, a little more of the residual darkness of Lord Voldemort’s presence in his ancestral home was washed away. It would have been curious if not for his bloodline’s closeness to wild magic. 

He mused, taking another deep breath of the air. The magic of the earth resonated within him and the land his family had kept for centuries. When the earth was renewed, they were. He sighed and looked back at the sprawling mansion and cultivated grounds, his Abraxan winged horse pawing the ground impatiently. It would take many years to restore the peace of their lands after the occupation, as he liked to call it. 

Draco Malfoy had never wanted to be a Death Eater despite his ignorant enthusiasm for his father’s glory days in his youth. No, he had learned the hard way that blood purity was worthless. Raw magic had more power than any bloodline… and could be found in any bloodline- pureblood, muggleborn, or like the famed Lord Voldemort and Potter-head, half-blood. His gray eyes narrowed as he saw the shadow in his parents’ bedroom. 

Tall, lithe, graceful…

He scoffed and turned the horse back towards the orchard and the open sky, giving it its head and holding on when it gathered itself to leap. Wings the color of storm clouds covered him before whisking down. A slight puff of magic and they were airborne, galloping through and then over the orange trees, the fresh air freezing his face with the coolness of the early spring morning. 

His father deserved to be in Azkaban with the rest of that disgusting lot- not walking freely amongst magical society. Of course, the entitled arse had somehow managed to buy or blackmail his way out of prison again. His mother had been grateful, was so thankful her family had not been separated by those awful Ministry rulings; but, then, his mother was far more forgiving than her son. 

She also wasn’t aware that her husband still kept in touch with his compatriots in prison. 

Draco had no doubt that his father committed treason every day by not telling the Ministry where the remaining members of Voldemort’s followers were. He wondered if it even mattered. His father was, after all, courting the favor of the soon-to-be Minister with campaign donations and a dinner party. 

He had even consented to having muggleborn Ministry members at his home for the affair. 

Fakery at its best. Draco scoffed again as his winged horse swooped down to harass some geese. They squawked and wheeled around but his horse’s wings protected him from their sharp beaks and soon they were free and gliding lower, back to the orchard. 

The scent of orange blossoms greeted him with the slow warming of the day as the sun finally lifted over the mountains. He smiled as his horse touched down. 

The blossoms would be ready for harvesting soon. Another day or so- when they were in the height of their blossoming stage. He would have to check on the lemon trees and the eucalyptus as well. The drying of all three often took time and careful maintenance to create the optimum potions and medicine ingredients. 

Longbottom would get pissed if he didn’t do it right. 

They were working together on a cure for dragon pox and they both suspected that orange blossom oil would be a good energizing element to the potion. Draco’s knowledge of potions and Neville’s combined knowledge of herbology and medicine made a good team. 

Even his illustrious father had stopped sniffing in disdain at the partnership after they had created a potion that had cured Timictus rash for which there had previously been no cure. Of course, it could have been the money they were making off the cure as well. 

His father was very practical that way… and the Longbottoms were purebloods, after all. It was a perfectly acceptable partnership. All in the name of unity, of course.

Draco scoffed again as he rubbed his horse down and combed through its wings. “Good boy, Scintilius. Thank you for the morning ride, my friend.” He produced an apple from one of his pockets and fed it to his horse.

Perhaps he would skip breakfast this morning. It would be good to walk through Diagon Alley and get rid of some of his restlessness. He could get a pastry from Pomphet’s on his way to work. 

He pulled out his wand and apparated away, leaving his horse to his hay and water. 

~*~ Diagon Alley~*~

 

Hermione laughed delightedly as Ollivander’s face morphed into an expression of pure bliss. Her mentor of one week had never tried Pomphet’s Pastries before and so she had taken him to the small, outdoor restaurant for breakfast. The old man had harrumphed and grumped the whole way but the smells coming out of the small storefront had made him pause and he had sat patiently outside at one of the small wrought-iron tables for her to go and order. 

They got on well, she mused, taking a bite of her own pastry. Strawberries, blackberries, and cream in a confection that should have been restricted to dessert. She sighed, Pomphet’s was heaven, truly. 

He had been taking it easy on her the first few weeks, or so she thought. Truly all she had learned was that she knew nothing about wand lore, and that each wand sounded and felt different even when made of wood from the same tree. There were very few books and writings on the making of wands because it was more of an intuitive art. The technical aspect was thus even more difficult to master than a magic like charms or defense against the dark arts. 

The scraps of paper, scrolls, and small books in the workshop were the most valuable pieces of literature to be found on wand lore. Handwritten by his ancestors or other wandmakers for centuries. They frustratingly contained more insights than actual lessons, leaving her scrambling to understand a nuance for which she didn’t even understand the basics. 

Still, she was fascinated and Ollivander was a curiously adept and masterful teacher. He rarely outright answered her questions, which was irritating to say the least; but, she always managed to find the answer under his guidance. Somehow. 

She was also pleased to note that oft times, some of her questions seemed to throw him for a loop- made him think about his own art in a new way. That curious, sharp look would get in his eye and he would levitate some scrap of paper or piece of wood over to her and settle down in a chair to think. 

She sipped her coffee slowly, enjoying the coolness of the rain-washed morning as her mentor finished his pastry. 

“Today you will do some research.” He slurped his tea, sighing and closing his eyes, back straight. A slight breeze ruffled the erstwhile strands of his white hair. 

She raised an eyebrow when he finally deigned to look at her. 

“On the essential oils. You will be given one week and then you will report to me your findings.” He creaked to his feet, relying heavily on his cane. “I am interested in hearing your thoughts on the matter of essential oil enhancement of wood polishing oil. They have a different feel than lacquers. Lacquers must be carefully applied during the wandmaking in order to not decrease a wand’s potency.” He straightened his back, lifting his face to the sun- she had noticed he often did that and wondered if it was an effect of his incarceration or if he had always enjoyed the sunlight. “It has been said that cardamom oil in Indian wands can increase the wand’s power, energy, and sensuality- as you felt. Another acquaintance has written that manola oil from the island nations of the Pacific can give a wand rejuvenating properties.”

Hermione nodded and kept sipping her coffee, watching as he slowly shuffled off and lost himself in the crowd, tipping his hat at those that greeted him. She tipped her head back to the sun and wondered where she would start.

Bookstores were rather useless regarding wandlore. 

“Granger.” The aristocratic tenor made her still. She closed her eyes to the flashback of her torture- when he had told his aunt to stop. Crucio. 

She took a deep breath in, out, and pushed the memory away. 

“Malfoy,” she greeted, opening her eyes to find him seated in Ollivander’s spot with his own pastry plate before him. “Please,” she said, wryly, “Have a seat.”

He smirked and she stymied the urge to smack him like she had in fourth year. “We’re no longer enemies, Granger. Haven’t you heard?”

She turned her head away, resolved to finish her coffee before leaving her table to this pureblood mania prick. 

“Are you Ollivander’s new apprentice, Granger?” Malfoy somehow managed to make speaking with his mouth full look elegant and she cocked her head to the side. Shouldn’t a pureblood consider that rude? Was she too muggleborn for him to care about proper manners?

“Yes, Malfoy.” She took another sip of her coffee, her scarlet scarf flipping over her shoulder with a sudden gust of wind. Her curls drifted over her face and she lifted a hand to tuck them behind her ear, brown eyes wandering to the early shoppers walking around the Alley. 

“He hasn’t considered anyone worthy since his son died, you know.” Malfoy had finished his food in seconds flat- a time which could possibly put Ron to shame. He stretched out on the chair, legs crossing at the ankle, oddly close to her own. 

She shifted her crossed legs over so that they wouldn’t accidentally touch. “I am aware.”

“Well.” Malfoy sipped his tea elegantly. She thought it odd that his pinky finger didn’t stick out. “You were the most brilliant witch in our year.”

She gave him a look, condescending at its best and he straightened, remembering that he had been a complete arse to her… much like his father had taught him to be. In the end, his Aunt had simply made the torture more painful after his request to stop…

“Look, Granger. The war fixed a lot of my perspectives. I,” he paused, watching her carefully with unsure gray eyes, “am sorry for what I did in the past. If I had known then what we would go through, what could have almost happened to the world if You-Know-Who had won, I would have chosen your side before the war had started.”

He would have his conscience clean whether she forgive him or not.

Hermione held his gaze, her eyes as piercing as Ollivander’s and he felt suddenly exposed- like she knew more of him than he did himself. 

She had the eyes of a wandmaker. 

“Alright then, Malfoy.” She took another sip of her coffee. “Apology accepted. The war’s over and the world is better for all of us.”

They fell into companionable silence. Draco wondered if he should tell her she had the Wandmaker’s Sight- that’s what the old English wizarding term for it was. It was in essence a sensing magic, an essence magic, that few witches or wizards ever had enough of to hone into a true talent. 

Ollivander had probably already told her. 

“What have you done since graduating then?” Her eyes were still on the people passing by, passively observing the world and he found himself grateful. It made it easier to talk to her without that penetrating gaze leveled on him. 

“I’ve been working on potions.” He swallowed the rest of his tea, enjoying the heat as it slid down his throat. “Snape left all his work to me. He’s,” he stopped, silently cursing, he hadn’t made that mistake in years, “He was a brilliant potions master… and my godfather.”

Hermione looked at him again but her eyes were normal once more, brown, soft and sharp at the same time. He relaxed minutely. 

“He was,” she agreed. “He came through every time; you know… even when we didn’t know it.” She sighed. “I wish… I wish I could have apologized for being such a brat.”

“Me too.” Malfoy laughed. “Then again, we weren’t the worst of his students. Can you imagine what was going through his mind when he tried teaching Lovegood about potions?”

Hermione grinned. “She is quite brilliant in her own way… but she does have a certain whimsy with her outlook on the world.”

“That’s one way of putting it,” Malfoy agreed. “Crabbe and Goyle were probably the worst though. They really were dumb as rocks.”

Hermione hummed, memory going back to the fiend fire in the Room of Requirement. So many treasures had been destroyed that day… She finished the last of her coffee and stood. “Well, Malfoy, I’ll see you around.”

They shook hands, exchanged polite smiles. 

“If you ever need a potion, let me know. I work with the Apothecary master down the way.” 

Hermione’s eyebrow rose. “I may take you up on that. Ollivander wants me to conduct a research project on essential oils.”

Malfoy’s eyes lit up with interest and, surprisingly, she found herself interested in his interest. “Start at Hogwarts- they have some good references in the Old Scrolls section. When you’re done, tell Longbottom and I’ll apparate over to Hogsmeade. We can talk if you still have questions after you’re done looking at books. I make most of the essential oils that the Apothecary uses with the plants Longbottom grows at Hogwarts.”

Oh, yes. She remembered. The pair of them- the extremely shocking and unlikely pair of them, had brewed up a cure for Timictus at some point. The Prophet had sung their praises for days on end afterwards. It certainly explained his interest in such things. 

Hermione tucked an errant curl behind her ear, considering. “Alright, Malfoy. I’ll owl you when I’m done with my literature search, then?” 

“Sounds good, Granger.” He nodded to her and walked off down the street, robes billowing.

Like Snape’s, she thought with a sad smile.  
~*~

Author's Note: Please let me know your thoughts! I hope you enjoyed the chapter.


	5. Chapter 5

Learning is not attained by chance, it must be sought for with ardor and diligence. ~Abigail Adams

~*~ Hogwarts Library ~*~

She was judging students based on the sound of their wands. 

Too many were raucous and not matched well to their witches or wizards and the lack of skill in taming them was apparent in the discordancy. A surprising number weren’t from Ollivander’s shop. She was beginning to suspect that was why the sounds around her were so very annoyingly dissonant. It was causing a lovely headache. 

A wand that sound like glass scraping on a rocky seashore passed behind her and a corresponding stab hit her between the eyes. The core was unfamiliar to her but she would have guessed Kelpie hair if Ollivander had been there to quiz her. Kelpie hair was a second-rate core best suited for a witch or wizard with a talent for swimming or sea-faring. In the hands of a witch or wizard who could speak mermish, the wand had the potential to be great; but otherwise, the core called to mediocre witches and wizards. 

She wondered if that had anything to do with the classicism still rampant in the wizarding world. Was the availability of high-class wands a limiting factor for upward mobility?

She sighed as the student rounded the corner and the sound faded, took a sip of her apple cider and refocused her eyes on the miniature text of the modern book she was studying. The book had been written by a muggle-born herbologist who apparently came from a long line of native natural medicine healers in America. He had been accepted at Ilvermorny and had managed to create a number of new potions and remedies during his tenure as a Healer. His work was quite brilliant, really.

She wondered what kind of wand he had and then winced as another student passed behind her. 

Blackthorn wand with a dragon heartstring core. The boy was wearing a green tie- Slytherin. Probably ambitious by the snooty air around him but not actually that powerful. The wand was an heirloom and it knew that this boy wouldn’t do its magic justice. 

It was a very cranky, loud wand and she grumbled as the throbbing in her head intensified.

Perhaps Ollivander should offer a discount for first year Hogwarts students. It would do wonders for her headache and for the magical abilities of British witches and wizards. She could not imagine that they were as adept at wandwork as they could be with wands that were so inharmonious to their own natures.

She gently closed the book she was reading, using a scrap of parchment as a place holder. Madame Pince had already glared at her twice for slamming books in the quiet section and she had surmised that her previous role as Hogwarts resident nerd no longer offered her any favors from the librarian. 

She picked up her cloak, pausing a moment to admire the fabric that Harry and Ginny had managed to find. She had told them she liked watching the stars despite hating Astronomy during one of their long, after-Christmas dinner evening talks. As a half-joke they had bought her a beautiful cloak made of some swirling indigo-blue-black fabric which sparkled with far off stars when the light hit it just right. She had been delighted. It was one of her favorite cloaks to wear in the wizarding world and it had the added benefit of being just lovely enough for the random, irritating photo sessions when she was recognized in public.

She sighed. Her head ached. She needed one of Neville’s potions. 

The student next to her sniffled and she glanced up, catching the woebegone look. She grinned at the young girl- obviously a Gryffindor and obviously having a rough day. “What’re you studying for then?”

The girl looked surreptitiously at Madame Pince but the librarian had disappeared into her office. “Charms. Water-making spells. Our test is tomorrow.”

Hermione smiled. “Water-making spells are in the sound and feel of the water. Imagine it bubbling, tumbling- like a brook in Spring. Can you?”

The girl looked at her like she was crazy but obediently closed her eyes. After a moment, she nodded.

“Do you have the sound in your mind?”

The girl nodded. Her wand was quiet in her hands and Hermione wondered if that meant she was in sync with it. Most of the wands in Ollivander’s shop were quiet unless she tried to listen to it and held it in her own hands. 

Maybe the library was just too quiet and so she was better at hearing wands there? She tilted her head to the side and closed her own eyes to listen. 

Maple wood with unicorn mane hair. It sounded like a violin, sweet but timid. It had the potential to be strong. Would the sound change when she used it for spellwork?

“Point your wand at the floor… and say it. Keep the sound and feel of water in your mind. Will it to happen.” Hermione conjured a towel and placed it where the girl pointed her wand.

“Aguamenti.” A single cascade came from the wand, a filial that sounded like a violin’s version of a bubbling brook. Hermione smiled. The girl opened her eyes and gasped. “I did it!”

“Shhh!” Hermione looked over her shoulder. Madame Pince was still in her office. She smiled at the girl. “You did. Now, stop it or there will be a puddle and we’ll get in trouble.” 

The girl grinned. “Finite incantatum.”

Hermione waved the towels away and gathered up her books. “I can’t believe I’m saying this- but for some subjects, particularly charms, it is easier to practice than to study. If you’re really struggling, I have always found that Professor Flitwick has an open door for curious answer-seekers.” 

“Thanks! I was so afraid of failing! I’m the only one in my class who wasn’t able to do it.” The girl smiled up at Hermione- something like hero-worship in her eyes and Hermione shifted uncomfortably. She hated that look. “Are you Hermione Granger?”

She nodded, getting uncomfortable. Being a war hero wasn’t all that it was cracked up to be when you were recognized everywhere you bloody well went. “Yes. What’s your name?”

“Emily Marchstone. You’re so famous!” That was definitely hero worship in her eyes. 

Hermione smiled. “Nah… Harry’s the famous one. Anyway, I’ve got to go see Professor Longbottom. Do you know where he would be?”

“Ms. Granger!” Hermione winced internally and froze, instincts kicking in. Deep breath in. Deep breath out. 

She turned and smiled carefully. “Good afternoon, Madame Pince. I was just leaving Ms. Marchstone here to her studies. She was kind enough to tell me where to find Professor Longbottom.” A quick, surreptitious wave of the wand and the wet towels under the table were gone.

“Yes, I was just saying he was usually with Professor Grubbly-Plank and Hagrid at this hour- taking care of the Abraxan winged horses.” Emily piped up behind her. “We’re sorry we were loud, Madame Pince. It won’t happen again.”

Hermione smiled beautifically at the surly librarian. “Have a good day, Madame Pince. It was good to see you again. Emily, would you mind showing me how to check out this book, please? I believe the system was updated.”

“Of course!” The girl got her scarf and robe and scampered after her quickly, both of them glad to escape the glares of the old woman.

“Do not forget to return it within one week or send an owl requesting an extension, Ms. Granger!” Madame Pince hadn’t changed in the slightest.

She and Emily stifled laughs as they quickly checked out and walked out of the library. Hermione noticed some red-scarfed students stop and stare at her as they left and barely refrained from sighing. Harry was far better at dealing with the fame of defeating the Dark Lord. 

Emily paused at the head of the stairs. She was a small girl, vivid brown eyes and curly, gold-streaked hair. “Would you like me to show you to the stables? I have an apple you can feed them.”

“Thank you, Emily; but, I think I’ll have to see the Infirmary about a headache potion first.” Hermione paused, releasing her hair from the quill she had used to make a haphazard bun. The girl had paused and was looking rather forlorn at her rejection. She sighed. Perhaps some encouragement would send her on her way. “You have a maple wood wand, Emily. They are often found in the hands of travelers and explorers- those with ambition who enjoy challenges. It is a considered a mark of status amongst wizarding-kind. Do not doubt yourself or your magic. That wand would not have chosen you if you didn’t have the potential to be great.”

Hermione sighed internally as the girl’s eyes shone. There was that hero worship again. Still, McGonagall had once given her such inspiration and it was best to pay these things forward. “Best of luck and thank you for your help with Madame Pince.” She winked and whirled away, imagining Snape’s expression if he could have seen her mimicking his move.

Flaring one’s cloak was an excellent, if dramatic, escape technique. 

~*~


	6. Chapter 6

Optimism is the faith that leads to achievement. Nothing can be done without hope and confidence. –Helen Keller

~*~ Later that day, Hogwarts ~*~

Hermione smiled at the fourth years as they trooped out of the greenhouses. Hufflepuff and Gryffindor had always gotten along well and there seemed to be many friendships between the two houses in the current students at Hogwarts. She caught the door as the last student edged out, allowing it to close quietly behind her. 

What looked like normal sunflowers and daffodils greeted her. The dark room smelled like green, growing things, the smell of freshly watered earth, and the random sweetness of various flowers. An unconscious smile made its way onto her face as she wound her way around various wooden tables littered with gardening tools and the occasional, forgotten house scarf or glove. “Neville?”

She heard a loud bang and a curse come from behind a shivering group of tall, bamboo-like plants- if bamboo was tie-dyed. A mussy-haired Neville peered out at her wearing Luna-like magnifying goggles. “Who’s that?”

She stifled a laugh. “Hermione, Neville. I owled you, remember?”

“Hermione!” Neville laughed. “Hey! I was hoping I’d get the chance to clean up before coming to find you in the library. Give me a sec. I need to get some more of these fresh clippings for Malfoy or he’ll drive me crazy.”

Her eyebrow rose but she sat on one of the benches. “Sure, Neville. Unearth yourself when you’re done.” 

He laughed at her pun but was otherwise silent. She played idly with the small vined plants the students had been working with. The vines curled around her fingers and reached for the lines along her palm. “What were your students working with?”

His voice was muffled. “Starflower… the girls are all mad about it. Its petals are ingredients in some love potions. It’s also very good for Astaria rash which can happen when you get bitten by a Lum mosquito in the Amazonian jungle. We had some exchange students head over recently and have this issue. The Brazilians are all immune to the rash because they’ve been exposed since birth so we figured it would be a good idea to teach the students here how to brew the cure. Just in case, you know?”

“Brilliant,” she murmured, closing her eyes and putting her head on top of her folded hands. Madame Pomfrey’s potion was beginning to work, finally. She’d asked for the mild version so she didn’t get sleepy. “I was surprised you two managed to work together.” 

“The war changed us all. I think,” he grunted and the plant shook, “Malfoy managed to change for the better. Took a bit but he’s rather brilliant at potions.” Neville emerged and took off the goggles, red marks around his eyes and on the bridge of his nose. 

She giggled. “You look like you just got beaten up.”

He grinned. “I almost did the other day at the old Hog’s Head. Some schmuck thought I was havin’ a look at his girl and then one of my seventh-years went and egged him on. Managed to duck in time. He hit the fire whiskey instead.”

Hermione laughed. “Lady killer. Herbologist. Potion maker. War hero. What happened to the old Neville?”

“No idea.” He shook his head and carefully charmed some water onto a cloth he had in his pocket before placing the tie-dye leaves in it. He looked up only to find Hermione watching him curiously. “These have to stay moist until they’re dried in dragon smoke. Charlie says he can do it without completely destroying them.”

Her eyebrow rose. “What are you playing at? What is it? Why do they have to stay moist and what does the dragon’s breath smoke add to the process that a regular fire smoke won’t?”

Neville laughed. “Oi. I forgot how intense you were, Hermione. Let’s go get a drink and we’ll talk about it? I can send these off by floo to Malfoy so he can preserve them properly before nightfall.” 

She nodded amicably and got up. “Want to wash up and meet there then? I can go see Hagrid real quick.”

“Bring him! Haven’t had a drink in a while. 7. We’ll get dinner.” Neville locked the door behind him. 

Hermione gave him a hug. “It’s good to see you, Neville.” 

“You too, Hermione.” 

They parted after a beat, old friends. “See you soon.”

~*~

Hermione entered the dimly lit bar with an unintended flare, the howling wind behind her slamming the door open and rippling the heavy fabric of her cloak. The feathered quill in her hair was ripped free and her curls flipped around her face, oh-so attractively. She cursed silently and hoped that her hair wouldn’t look like Einstein’s when she flipped it back.

“Blimey, Granger. Snape would have been proud of that one.” Malfoy’s voice was filled with restrained laughter as he charmed the door closed and handed her the frayed quill. “All you need is some grease in your hair to make sure it doesn’t fly around.”

She scoffed at his attempt at cleverness and pocketed the quill. “Thanks, Malfoy. Weren’t you supposed to wait till I owled you to show up?”

“Neville wanted me to come pick up some samples for drying. Marcus got us some shots... and, well… you know how it is.” Malfoy turned and led the way up a set of oaken, worn stairs to the veranda on the second floor. They stepped out into the spring evening and Hermione marveled at the view of the mountains. Snow-tinged and blue in the dusky light. 

The air smelled so much fresher here- wood smoke, something delicious cooking, and a cold wind muted by weather spells around the old wooden structure. An unconscious smile stole onto her features. 

Malfoy hummed and wondered if she knew she was lovely. Combined with the Wandmaker’s sight, she was no doubt sought after by many of the old wizarding families. 

The hypocrisy of the old Voldemort followers must make her furious, he mused. He lifted a hand to Neville and then let out a laugh. 

Some plant was mooning on the herbologist’s arm, clearly enraptured. It shivered happily in the cold, sparkling with what looked like frost-tinged leaves. Small, beautiful snowflakes dripped lazily down the stems. 

“Good evening, Neville. What’s that?” Hermione slid into the seat next to her old friend, bringing her old Gryffindor scarf out from one of the cloak’s pockets. 

“Anatolia frostica. A small, frost-making plant from the Anatolia region in Greece. It’s quite lovely. The leaves can be used to make stress-relieving potion and muscle-ache patches and poultices.” Neville tickled it and they watched, amazed the plant let out what could only be a delighted giggle. “It’s quite cute. Loves the winter season here.”

Hermione shook her head and stole Malfoy’s shot. 

“Oi!”

She grinned at him. “You owe me one.”

“For what?” He grinned back, feeling the warm fuzz of the fire whiskey in his veins. 

She shrugged and then laughed as Neville poured them all more shots. Marcus, the bar keep put something with sauce, meat, and potatoes on their table.

“It’s been a long time, Ms. Granger.” His voice was still gravely and vaguely creepy; but, she knew he was really an old softy. He had, after all, looked the other way when a group of disgruntled teenagers had met in his shop to fight their surrogate Headmaster. 

She smiled. “It has, Marcus. How has life been treating you?”

“Good, can’t complain.” He shifted, oddly and then brought out his wand. “Normally, I don’ ask these things of ma customers; but, ma wand’s been wonky. Can ya have a looksee?”

Hermione’s eyebrow rose. 

“It’s just Malfoy tol’ me ya’ been workin’ wit Ollivander. He was the original maker of ma’ wand, see?” He started putting it away when her expression remained surprised. 

“No, Marcus. It’s alright. Let me see. I’m still learning though, so I don’t know if I’ll be helpful.” She took the wand and immediately winced. 

This wand had seen blood. Lots of it. Someone screamed in the distance, another whispered about rape and torture. 

Deep breath in. Deep breath out. She closed her eyes and focused her inner sense on the wand, little by little. Slowly, she opened herself to the wand. Dragon heartstring from a particularly vicious Hungarian Horntail. The wand core was soaked in blood and had originally called to a master whose hands were equally red. The malice of it frightened her; but, she was shocked to discover that it had been tamed- mostly, by Marcus. He exerted a fine control over the violence of the heartstring’s nature. 

It made her wonder what had triggered the wand. Had he committed some act which had made him lose control? 

She shook her thoughts away and focused once more. The wood of the wand was old pine. Pine woods tended to choose independent masters who were often perceived as mysterious loners. This wood was very sensitive to non-verbal magic and thus also to the actions of its master. If the master was violent, it was unbelievably easy to turn the wood to violence. 

A cold wind blew past the weather spells and she shivered. The wood of the wand wasn’t a problem. It was completely in tune with Marcus and his controlled violence. The core of the wood was unhappy laying dormant. 

She looked up at Marcus, her eyes sharp and, unbeknownst to her, glowing faintly in the lantern lights. She looked like a witch from folk lore in that moment, hair twisting in the wind against a cloak that looked like stars. 

Neville elbowed the vaguely-drunk, captivated Malfoy and then coughed, loudly to snap Marcus out of it. 

“Your wand was not yours originally, was it?” Hermione ignored Malfoy’s grumbling and the faint redness on Marcus’ face. Maybe he felt warm from having been near the stoves?

“No, Ms. Granger. It was ma Pa’s.” He shuffled his feet. His accent became even more pronounced. “Do ya kno what’s wrong wit it?”

“You will have to take it to Ollivander since I can’t actually fix it here.” She handed the wand back to him. “The core is unstable. It seems like it was more suited to your father than to you. It won’t explode like some of the lesser wands have been known to; but, it may not work as well for your magic.”

She closed her eyes and when she opened them again, they had stopped glowing with that strange inner light. 

Marcus gave a short head nod. “Thanks, Ms. Granger.”

“Anytime, Marcus. Thank you for the food.” She smiled up at him. 

“On the house tonight. Have a good night.” He clapped Neville on the back and shuffled off. 

Neville stared at Hermione for a second, glanced at Malfoy who was contemplating his shot glass, and then looked back at Hermione. “You know you have the Wandmaker’s Sight, right?”

She shook her head, mystified. Ollivander had never mentioned anything of the sort. “What’s that? I’ve never heard of it.”

Neville went crimson and Malfoy coughed before taking his shot. “Well, uh-“

Neville looked at Malfoy and then back at Hermione. “I don’t actually know how to describe it. Malfoy?”

The silver-blonde-haired man looked at his business partner and friend. Bollocks. “The Wandmaker’s Sight is an old gift, one which is more elemental and intuitive a magic than what is commonly practiced. It is rare enough that most people have never heard of it- although Ollivander definitely has. He has the gift, as do you.” 

He did not add that the Sight had never been found in a first generation muggle-born witch or wizard. His jaw was happily unbruised. 

“So why is Neville embarrassed?” She started serving herself some food. “You’re completely red, Nev.”

Neville laughed easily, the awkwardness fading from his shoulders. “Well, my Gran always wanted me to marry someone with the Sight… supposed to augment the blood line and that sort of thing. It was just weird… Luna has it too, you know.”

Hermione almost choked on her potato at the word ‘marry’. “Oh. Charming.” 

“Here.” Malfoy handed her a shot of fire whiskey, smiling cheerfully when she glared at him. “Best fire whiskey in town, Granger. You afraid of a little smoke coming out of your ears?”

“Never, Malfoy.” She drank. 

He drank. Coughed and winced at Granger’s laugh. “Dammit.”

Neville laughed. “You two will never change.” 

~*~

A/N: Thank you for the comments and kudos.


	7. Chapter 7

Curiosity is one of the great secrets of happiness. – Bryant H. McGill

She had gotten lost in her thoughts after getting to her guest room in the castle with the escort of a drunken, hilarious Neville. The brown-haired witch had mulled over Malfoy’s words on the Wandmaker’s Sight in the wee hours of the morning, enjoying the stillness of the night, the sound of wind around the castle eves. 

She had missed Hogwarts. 

“The Wandmaker’s Sight is an old gift, one which is more elemental and intuitive a magic than what is commonly practiced. It is rare enough that most people have never heard of it- although Ollivander definitely has. He has the gift, as do you.”

Ollivander had mentioned something similar- after that ridiculous meeting with the French man where they had obtained the cardamom oil.

“You have the ability to feel Ms. Granger. It is a trait sought after by the old families.”

She sighed. It really had explained all of those stupid invitations to –tea this, party that. Ugh. She had responded to a handful, people she had vaguely remembered from their school days and Ginny had accompanied her so she hadn’t been awfully lonely or uncomfortable. Harry and Ron had come a few times as well. 

She wondered what Auror adventure they were off on now. Grimmauld Place was boring without all of them there. Ginny was off training. Harry and Ron off rounding up Death Eaters. 

And, she… she was still learning. 

She sighed and had gotten up and headed to the library to do research on the Wandmaker’s Sight. She had heard Peeve’s cackling along one of the staircases but had successfully managed to avoid him and his annoying pranks. 

Mrs. Norris had stared at her briefly, meowed, and run off. 

Then, she was in the library and all was well with the world. One of the castle ghosts had helped her locate some texts on the Wandmaker’s Sight and had then started snoring near her. 

She read by candlelight and ignored the hushed giggles coming form the floor below. 

The more she read about wandmaking, a true essence magic., the more she realized how much stock wizarding kind put into bloodlines. Many of the writers of these old, esoteric tomes she was perusing proudly listed lineages dating back decades, if not centuries. 

It was almost like horse breeding… with people. And she was getting tired of it. 

Each one had stated that no muggleborn could even hope to achieve wandmaking in the first generation- the blood was too new, the magic too raw for such a refined art. 

She scoffed at the thought. Essence spells dealt with the rawness of magic itself. Who else would be better suited to such spellwork than a newly minted witch or wizard? 

Bah, she closed the book loudly, letting it echo in the stillness of the pre-dawn library. She had come here for history and instead had simply found more classicism and bigotry. 

Perhaps she would return to her room to sleep and just focus on essential oils from here on out. 

Nodding lightly to herself, she rose from the chair and blew out the candles, tiptoeing out of the library with the quiet of Crookshanks. She remembered most of the creaky floorboards and managed not to freak out the teenage couple on the second floor. 

~*~

“Hey, Hermione!” Neville greeted her enthusiastically as she entered the greenhouse to a crowd of Slytherins and Gryffindors who looked to be fourth or fifth year students. “Class, this is Hermione Granger, a former Gryffindor and Ollivander’s new wandmaking apprentice.”

The students seemed to perk up a bit though she saw a few Slytherins sneer. Even a Gryffindor looked surprised at her status as Ollivander’s apprentice. “Good afternoon, students. I can just wait until you’re done, Neville.” 

“Nonsense, Hermione! Today is the perfect day for you to help me. We’re learning about wand woods.” Neville beamed at her and she barely refrained from scowling back. 

She had explicitly told him she didn’t want to do guest lectures. It was bad enough most of the school already knew she was here. She’d grabbed books and been hiding in Hagrid’s hut as a result for most of the day. 

She smiled beatifically. “I would be happy to help in whatever way I can.”

“Excellent! Just come over here. The Suniflora are harmless and enjoy being petted.” He gestured to the giant sunflowers who were shivering happily in the sunny spot of the greenhouse. 

She obediently went and sat on the bench, petting the flowers that bent over to say hello like weird giraffes. She half-listened as Neville lectured and only started paying attention when he began asking questions of his class. 

“Who knows the old wand wood rhyme?” His question was met with silence and she could see him frown in irritation. “Come on guys, we have a guest today.”

A small timid hand lifted up in the Slytherins. It belonged to a slight girl, chestnut haired and fine boned, with eyes of gold-green. “My mum always said it was rowan gossips, chestnut drones, ash is stubborn, hazel moans.”

Hermione smiled and nodded, vaguely surprised when the girl blushed in response. 

Neville beamed. “Yes, Mariana! Exactly! Now, are those the only wand wood types there are?”

The class shook their heads, no. 

“How many wand cores are there?” Neville’s next question also stumped them and he ended up turning to Hermione. “Do you know the exact number?”

Hermione rose to her feet, smiling as one of the suniflora cuddled on her shoulder like a cat. A tall, weird cat. “There are a number of wand cores with three that provide the strongest and most consistent magic. Does anyone know what those three are?”

Her cloak glittered in the sun as she idly petted the flower on her shoulder. Her question was met with silence once more. A timid hand once more. “Yes, Mariana?”

“Phoenix?” She questioned. “Mine is phoenix.”

“That is correct.” Hermione grinned at her. “Also dragon heart string and unicorn hair.” 

“What’s yours?” The question came from a Gryffindor boy, sitting in the middle of a group of his friends. 

“My wand is made of applewood with a phoenix feather core.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Mariana’s eyes widen and made a note to talk to the girl before leaving. She knew more about wandlore than most people- had she been raised in a wandmaking family or did she have the "Wandmaker's Sight"? 

“Can anyone tell me how to cultivate wand wood trees?” Neville’s question made her raise an eyebrow. 

She actually had no idea and hoped he didn’t ask her. Her reputation as being a bookworm would be screwed. 

“They can only grow in a magical forest.” A new voice, belonging to a tall, lanky redheaded Slytherin. “They are identified by wand finder crystals.”

He looked at her with contempt and she almost punched him, instant dislike coursing through her. He had that pureblood snide that made her blood boil. 

“Thank you, Fileus.” Neville’s voice had darkened slightly. Apparently he shared her dislike of the student. “Can you share which trees can be found by crystals and which can be found only by the stars or by unicorn guidance?”

The boy shrugged, arrogance rolling off him in waves. “I don’t know the details, Professor Longbottom.” 

Hermione’s eyes narrowed, her wand warmed in her hand. 

“It was in the reading, Fileus.” Neville’s response was easy, controlled. “Anyone else?”

She would have taken points… or turned him into a ferret. 

A young, dark-skinned boy in the front of the Gryffindor crowd raised his hand. “I believe wands that pair best with unicorn hair are the ones that can only be found by unicorn guidance? And the rarer, more powerful woods, can only be found by star charting.” 

“Correct, Roman. Well done!” Neville clapped his hands. “So, before you on your tables, you have selections of wand woods. While few of us have the talent for making wands, any witch or wizard can sense power in magical items, including wand woods, magical plants, and crystals. Today, I want you to first, identify the wood before you and second, to try and sense what spells would be strongest with the wand.”

Hermione frowned at his wording but said nothing. The true personality of a wand wood was hard to define, at best. It was an enigmatic talent. She looked over at Mariana as the students turned to their benches. 

She suspected Mariana would get full points on this assignment. 

~*~


	8. Chapter 8

_The true mystery of the world is the visible, not the invisible. –Oscar Wilde ___

__“Ms. Granger?” She looked around the head of the fourth year she had been helping to the gold-green eyes of the slight girl in Slytherin robes._ _

__“Yes, Mariana?” She smiled and walked over, hands absently petting the suniflora. “What can I help you with?”_ _

__“This wood…” She handed it to Hermione, blinking back tears and looking surreptitiously at her classmates. For the most part, they were ignoring her and talking with each other. “It’s sad,” she whispered._ _

__Hermione stared at her for a second and then took the long piece of light-colored wood, catching a faint whiff of cypress. She closed her eyes and listened to the unrefined soliloquy drifting up from the wood._ _

__The wood sounded like a muted cello, deep and resonant, steeped in history, a sound that echoed through an imaginary castle or some such building. Old and noble… and lonely. So unbearably lonely._ _

__She felt her throat close, her heart squeeze and wished more than anything for something to ease that loneliness. The wood warmed slightly in her hands, the sound becoming more refined, the notes drifting higher._ _

__She found herself listening more closely, the subspace of her thoughts waiting for the magic to reveal something. Unbeknownst to her, Mariana’s classmates had stopped to watch her, staring as she stood still as a statue, head bowed._ _

__Ah, she smiled. There it was._ _

__The core for this wand would be found in Morgana’s wood… in the ashes of a newborn phoenix’s nest, amongst a smattering of feathers there would be one that would suit this wand beautifully. This wand would have a phoenix feather core._ _

__She blinked, coming out of her subspace. How did she know that? That had never happened before... at least not like that. She had only ever been able to tell what kind of core it would be and Ollivander would figure out the rest._ _

__She came to a revelation as she fingered the wood, imagining its eventual shape._ _

__The making of a wand could only be done with insight into the magic that best resonated with the wood and core- the magic that best resonated with the witch or wizard the wand selected. The making of a wand was a story of sorts- a revelation of magical nuances, history, personality, the very nature- the very core, of magic, itself._ _

__She stared at the wood in her hands and wondered how much of each wizard or witch’s story Ollivander knew before they even stepped into his shop._ _

__“What did you feel, Mariana?” She looked down at the girl and then kneeled so she wasn’t looming over her, blithely ignoring the students that had been set back to work by Neville._ _

__She startled to see a strangely sharp, knowing light in the young girl’s eyes._ _

__Mariana shifted and stared at the wood again. “It’s sad… lonely but in a noble way. The wood is from Italy, right?”_ _

__“Cypress first originated in Italy, yes.” Neville had come to join them and had conjured a box of tissues for Mariana. “What’s going on here?”_ _

__Hermione smiled. “Mariana understands the nature of this wand well. It may have a sad history, once it is made.”_ _

__She heard Fileus scoff and glared at him over her shoulder. His friends elbowed him in response, appropriately abashed at having irritated a guest. Mariana looked embarrassed when her classmates kept looking at her._ _

__Neville helped dry her tears and asked her to go fetch him some papers from his office next door. It got her away from the curiosity of her peers. He exchanged a look with Hermione and she was fairly tickled at how protective he was with his students._ _

__“Ms. Granger?” A Gryffindor girl, tall and confident, had raised her hand. “How do you know which core works with which wood?”_ _

__There was a chorus of agreeing curiosity and Hermione’s eyebrow rose. She shook her head. Brilliant question when she wasn’t entirely certain herself. “You have to listen to the wood- it’ll tell you.”_ _

__And… now she sounded like Luna. The kids looked so skeptical. She sighed and barely refrained from growling. She had been hanging around Ollivander way too much. “To explain, you know Professor Longbottom requested that you try and sense what the wood would be good for- What kind of spells it would work best with?”_ _

__There were fragmented nods and a lot of confusion. Neville’s eyebrow rose and she could tell he was trying not to laugh._ _

__She swore if he brought it up in front of Malfoy… there would be itching powder in his pajamas._ _

__“Wandmakers are very good at sensing the “power” of a wand.” She used air quotes. “If you are good at it, you can also sense what core will work best to augment this power.”_ _

__Oh, good. She was beginning to see some clarity on their faces. “In effect, wandmaking is similar to wandless magic. It is intuitive, almost elemental and in order to grasp it, you have to really focus that magical intuition we all have that defines us as witches or wizards.” Some more clarity. “It’s a rare talent amongst us and requires careful training. Not many practice wandless magic for this reason.”_ _

__“Can you practice wandless magic?” The snooty Fileus. He asked the question like he expected her to say no; but, she sword she could see a minute amount of respect in his demeanor now._ _

__Her eyes were carefully blank when she looked at him. She really didn’t like him but he was just a kid. “Yes, I can.”_ _

__“She’s a war hero.” One of the Gryffindors said it like that explained everything. She smiled at him briefly._ _

__“Regardless,” Neville stepped in, “Let’s give Ms. Granger a round of applause and thank her for helping us with today’s assignment.”_ _

__She smiled at the kids. “It was nice to work with you guys. Best of luck with your studies.”_ _

__Neville clapped his hands. “Class dismissed. I want a page long essay on the nature of wand woods due next class.”_ _

__They left amidst a flurry of groans, the slanting sun of the late afternoon greeting them when they opened the door. A few Gryffindors loitered, eying her with that annoying hero worship in their eyes until Neville sent them on their way._ _

__She suspected they would wait outside. Little did they know she had been dodging fans since she had arrived. She was a pro at it and she knew all the tricks from the Marauder’s Map._ _

__She turned to Neville as he started picking up the uncut wand woods. “Did you change your lesson plan just because I was here?”_ _

__He grinned. “Even though you told me you didn’t want to be a guest lecturer?”_ _

__She narrowed her eyes. He smiled cheerily. “You’ll never know.”_ _

__“Neville!”_ _

__~*~_ _

__A/N: Thank you for the comments and kudos! I enjoy the feedback._ _


	9. Chapter 9

Talent is a flame. Genius is a fire. – Bernard Williams

She smiled up at Dumbledore’s portrait, pleased to see the twinkle in those familiar eyes before glancing around the tabletop of books to the current Headmistress of Hogwarts. 

McGonagall, as straight backed as ever, was writing something, lips pursued in what Hermione knew was resigned irritation. She almost laughed. The last time she had seen that look was when Harry and Ron and she had woken up in the infirmary bandaged and worn from one of their adventures. 

After that, the look had been pure resignation. 

“Good afternoon, Ms. Granger. How do you do today?” Dumbledore’s portrait was rather refined. He reminded her vaguely of Ollivander. Perhaps it was the cheerful, quicksilver sharpness of his painted eyes. 

It was a good likeness.

“I’m doing well, Professor. I’m studying as usual.” She wondered if the portrait had been imbued with his knowledge on wandlore. 

“Oh? What are you studying?” He was very polite, not nearly as perceptive as the real Dumbledore. Then again, he was just a portrait. 

It made her so sad. “I’m studying wandmaking, Professor.” She paused the added, “With Ollivander.”

Dumbledore’s eyebrows rose and Fawkes, his painted phoenix let out a squawk in the background. “That is a fascinating field. How do you like it?”

The brown-haired girl smiled. “As you said, Professor. It is most fascinating.”

McGonagall was done with her writing. She had come to stand beside Hermione. “Ms Granger was one of our best students, Albus. Do you recall?”

“I do indeed, Professor Alley Cat.” The twinkle that reappeared was far more familiar this time and she wondered if long-time exposure made the portraits more familiar. Portrait-making was also an essence magic in the wizarding world. It would be fascinating to explore… but, for now, she turned to McGonagall.

“Professor Alley Cat?” 

McGonagall frowned at the portrait. “Ignore him.”

“It’s a pet name, Ms. Granger.” Dumbledore’s voice held a tinge of laughter that brought forth her own. McGonagall immediately waved him off and harrumphed away.

Oh, dear. She wondered what their relationship had been. They had always seemed close… but then the story of Grindlewald. She wondered and then belatedly realized that McGonagall had started walking.

Hermione ran to catch up. “About my request, Professor?”

“Yes, Ms. Granger. I do not mind if you use my office as a place to study. I have heard the rumors floating around the castle after your presence was noticed yesterday. You may very well be mobbed in the library.” She looked so concerned by the very idea that Hermione couldn’t help but laugh. 

“It is no laughing matter, Ms. Granger.” McGonagall’s face softened after a moment. “I also would like to thank you for your words to Emily Marchstone. The girl was struggling a bit and the portraits say she seems to have perked up tremendously since meeting you.”

“Her wand was actually quiescent in her hands, unlike most of the students I have come across. It shows a talent for magic… I think.” Hermione twirled one of her curls around her finger, thoughts wandering once again. She and McGonagall had slowed in pace as they reached the outer doors to the castle. In a moment they had stepped outside onto the green lawn. 

The lake sparkled in the distance, shining golden-orange by the light of the mountain sunset. A warming breeze drifted by, tinged with late winter cold and smelling of juniper and pine from the Forbidden Forest. 

Hermione looked over at McGonagall and found the old woman lifting her face to the wane sunlight, smiling. Just like Ollivander.

Maybe it was an old person thing? 

“I have been meaning to speak with you, Ms. Granger.” McGonagall turned off the path and onto the grass, leading them both towards the lake. Most of the students were inside for their evening meal and the grounds were quiet, the occasional bout of laughter or raised voices drifting to them from within the castle. “Neville told me you have the Wandmaker’s Sight.”

Hermione nodded. “Yes, apparently. Can you tell me more about it? The library was an agonizing experience which did nothing more than tell me about lineages. Neville turned rather… red when I asked for more information. Even Malfoy was uncomfortable.”

“Draco Malfoy was there as well?” McGonagall’s eyes were piercing and concerned. “Well, dear, be careful. Women with the Wandmaker’s Sight are highly sought after by the old families. We carry a certain finesse and depth of magic which is often hereditary. The old families will be interested in your blood and in marrying you off to one of their sons.”

Hermione frowned, thinking back on all the party invitations she had received once she had become Ollivander’s apprentice. How hypocritically annoying of all of those people. “That explains a lot.”

“Bellatrix Lestrange had the Sight and I suspect that’s why she looked so mad most of the time.” McGonagall sighed. “There have been many famous witches and wizards suspected of having the Sight; but, few who truly were so gifted and there are different variations of it. I have always wondered if Dumbledore was one of those wizards. The more I ruminate on it, the less I think so. He was simply great. He studied quite a bit you know back in his own Hogwarts days. Never tried to stop learning.”

Hermione winced when the name of her torturer was brought up. Deep breath in, out. “What exactly is the Wandmaker’s Sight? There are very few references of actual worth Madame Pince could find for me today and only in passing for most scripts.”

“Yes, it is so rare and guarded a gift that no one has truly studied it.” McGonagall paused and conjured a blanket for them to sit on, two wineglasses and a bottle of something that looked old and smelled sweet. “It is also a gift which manifests in different ways although they are all collectively called the “Sight”. For some, they are uniquely adept at wandmaking like yourself or Ollivander, for others they may be good at portraiture, archaeology, or divination.”

The liquid poured out red and sparkled sunny gold like champagne, beautiful in the dying light. Hermione conjured up some lanterns and pulled out some of the bread and cheese she had picked up from Winny in the kitchens. The little elf had also given her some sweets for Kreacher and told her some advice on how to keep an old elf’s rheumatism from bothering him. 

She smiled to think of that odd friendship. 

“Now,” McGonagall began once they were settled with their wine and bread, “To understand the Wandmaker’s Sight, you must understand the history of wandmaking itself. Ollivander would be a much better resource than I; but, I will tell you what I know since he’s rather enigmatic.”

Hermione laughed. “He is, that. It is a surprisingly effective way to teach.”

McGonagall raised an eyebrow. “I did not think you, of all my students, would say that, Ms. Granger. I always thought you more logical.”

The curly-haired girl shook her head with a wry smile. “I actually told a student practicing was sometimes better than studying in Charms the other day!”

A small smile lifted the corners of McGonagall’s mouth. “You would make a good teacher considering how well that student did on her Charms exam.”

Hermione just laughed again. “Witches and wizards didn’t always use wands for magic, did they?”

“Yes, wandless magic was far more commonplace about a millennia ago give or take a few hundred years; but, staffs of magical woods were common. Then when the witch hunts rose and the staffs became symbols of wizardry, people began experimenting with the woods to see if the same effect could be done with smaller pieces of wood- things we could hide beneath robes or clothes. At the same time we were developing the anti-Muggle spells to keep our places safe from raids and so on and so forth. There is a large text on the history of Hiding Wizardry if you are interested. Madame Pince should know where it is.” McGonagall took a delicate bite of her bread and brie. 

Hermione kept her gaze on the waters of the lake, thoughts roaming to the Kelpie hair wand. “What about the wand cores? When were those discovered?”

“No one knows exactly,” McGonagall was surprisingly fastidious and waited to answer until she was done chewing, very much like Ollivander. It made Hermione smile. “We used to have crystals on our staffs; but, those went out of fashion with the staffs themselves. Then, at some point a few hundred years ago, wands with augmented cores began popping up in the East. The practice was adopted in the West with what cores we had available here. Eventually, it just became commonplace. Again, at this part, Ollivander may be a better resource. There are not many texts on the history of wandmaking.” 

Hermione smiled. “So I have been figuring out, Professor. It’s quite a unique method of study.” 

McGonagall chuckled. “Tell me about it. None of my students have ever thought to pursue this as a career… and I would not have suspected you to be so drawn to it.”

The brown-eyed girl shrugged, her eyes sharp and soft, filled with a familiar intelligence when she looked at her old teacher. “It’s not something you can learn from a book. I got… curious.” 

Hermione took a sip of her wine, enjoying the sweetness with the flavor of the bread and brie. She conjured a blanket for her mentor and pulled her own cloak around her shoulders. The twilight air was getting chilly though the lanterns were quite cheerfully lighting the area. A few will-o-wisps joined them, dancing over the darkened waters of the lake. 

“I enjoy it, Professor. It’s a fascinating subject and one that is far more intuitive than what I am used to.” She put her hands on her knees, fiddling with her half-full wineglass and watching the stars start to come out over the mountains.

“What have you learned so far?” McGonagall asked and so the rest of the evening passed in delightful conversation.

Author's Note: To readers, again thank you for the comments. I do enjoy the feedback. This is a surprisingly slow-moving story compared to the plots I usually write... and I hope it's allowing for more character development. Please, let me know any suggestions on improvement. Thanks, again!

Best,  
Penny


	10. Chapter 10

_A rainy day and a book. That’s all I need. –random internet quote ___

__Hermione had thoroughly enjoyed her long discussion with McGonagall on wandmaking. It had been a bit strange at first to know more than her mentor about a subject; but, over the course of the evening the conversation had become one between friends instead of between student and teacher._ _

__She had made her way to her guest room easily, using one of the trick staircases that no one had every truly mastered but which had been nice to her and taken her exactly where she needed to go last night. Peeves had come upon her, stared her down a moment, and then cackled away, guffawing about drunken heroes and then, half-hidden by a floating column, she had heard him say something about being loved by the Weasleys._ _

__She had stilled and blinked back tears before hurrying up the staircase as it started to move again. The loss of the twins was a wound that would never truly heal for any of them and she was surprised and pleased that even Peeves felt it. Perhaps he was more human than ghost._ _

__Oh, dear. She sighed, hating herself for going back to memories she was always trying to keep away. The war had taken too many of her friends. Unlike Harry and Ron, she didn't want to keep battling with Death Eaters and dark wizards. After helping Harry win, she had simply run out of steam. She could take care of them, of her loved ones; but, she refused to keep delving into the awful psyche of misogyny, racism, and cruelty._ _

__She shook her head, pushing the thoughts away and going to bed. It was long past the time to move on._ _

__The morning had dawned late, the sky covered with blue-gray rain clouds, a touch chilly and scented with cold, evergreen mist. Dodging a pair of students wearing Gryffindor scarves, she had made her way off castle grounds to visit the town for the day. The curly-haired witch let out a breath and walked into the small bookstore in Hogsmeade, wondering if they would have the book she wanted to buy._ _

__A wizened witch met her with a smile, eyes twinkling in that oddly comforting way of grandmothers. “Good afternoon, Ms. Granger. I was wondering when you would walk into my shop.”_ _

__“Good afternoon, I do not believe we’ve met.” She smiled back._ _

__The old witch grinned. “You’re famous, dear. Some of the students were talking about your visit this last weekend.” She leaned in conspiratorially. “I think they were in my shop to try and find you.”_ _

__Hermione laughed, put at ease by the old woman's demeanor. She smelled like spiced candies and leather. “I’ve been avoiding them to be honest. I’m here to research something for Ollivander. Perhaps we could keep my visit a secret?”_ _

__The witch chuckled and conjured a small basket just the right sort of size for holding books. “Of course, m'dear! What do you need?”_ _

__“I would like the book “Essential Oils and their Applications in Healing and Magic” by Raven TundraWolf sent to Ollivander’s shop.” Hermione's smile stretched as a scruffy looking golden-haired dog came out from behind the counter to sniff her shoes. She leaned down and let him sniff her hands before gently scratching his ears. His tongue lolled out._ _

__The witch chortled, her accent turning brogue. “He only likes women, you know. I’ll see if I have it. If not, I can order the book for you, dearie. Give me a mo’.”_ _

__Hermione nodded and found a spot, half-hidden by the counter to keep petting the dog. He huffed happily and settled down next to her._ _

__“Granger?” The voice, low and surprised, startled her and the dog. He growled at the newcomer for a half second before huffing again and looking expectantly up at Hermione for more pets._ _

__She looked up into Malfoy’s blue-gray eyes, absently noting that they reminded her of the rainclouds outside. “Malfoy?”_ _

__“I thought you were a cat person.” He leaned down and the dog sniffed his fingers before ignoring him and siddling up to Hermione more. “That cat of yours used to give me nightmares. It always hissed at me, you know.”_ _

__She smirked. “Crookshanks is adept at figuring out who she can and can not trust. She caught Pettigrew before we knew he was an animagus, you know.”_ _

__Malfoy looked impressed before kneeling next to her and seemingly taking on the task of convincing the dog to like him. “Heard you almost got jumped by some fans of yours after Longbottom's Herbology class.”_ _

__She frowned at him, not liking the slight mockery she detected in his voice. He was concentrating on scratching behind the dog's ears as the dog warily watched him. "Harry and Ron are better at the hero worship. I don't particularly care for it.”_ _

__“Potter did always have a knack for the spotlight. Used to hate him and now I just feel bad for him. It’s bloody well annoying.” The dog gave him a blank look and laid it's head on Hermione's thigh. Malfoy huffed._ _

__Hermione, fingers tangled in the dog’s ruff, grinned at the peevish tone of voice. “You have fans, do you, Malfoy?”_ _

__He blinked at her smile, then smiled ruefully himself, crossing his hands over his knee. “Not as many as the golden trio; but, ever since Longbottom and I made that cure, we’ve become annoyingly well known.”_ _

__“Rita Skeeter?” Hermione’s grin grew. Neville had shared some of his troubles with the irritating reporter._ _

__Malfoy nodded. “She got weirdly quiet when Longbottom talked about you once in an interview.”_ _

__His eyebrow rose as a wicked, wicked light entered her eyes. She turned back to the dog and he found himself intrigued. “Do tell.”_ _

__He found himself being measured by Granger's oddly penetrating gaze and barely kept himself from fidgeting. After a moment, she answered. “I may have discovered that she is an animagus- a bug, to be exact.” Malfoy’s other eyebrow rose. “I may also have trapped her in a glass bottle with only some leaves for food for a few days.”_ _

__Malfoy sat back on his heels. “How very… /Slytherin/ of you Granger.” His eyes danced wickedly. “I am positively _proud _of you.”__ __

__

__

____She laughed. “I’ll take that as a compliment, Malfoy.”_ _ _ _

____“I’ve found your book, dearie! I’ll have it owled to Ollivander as requested. Would you like to pay now?” The old witch waved her wand and the book began to wrap itself in brown paper._ _ _ _

____Hermione stilled, something inside of her honing in on the wand. Cypress with a unicorn hair core. It was an Ollivander wand designed for a witch of great nobility. Cypress wands only ever called to those who were bold and self-sacrificing._ _ _ _

____This woman must have done something great in her life once._ _ _ _

____Hermione smiled and ignored Malfoy’s look of query at her momentary quiet. “I can pay now. I should also inform you that I adore your dog.”_ _ _ _

____The witch gave Malfoy a measuring look as he watched her dog trot back to his spot behind the counter. “Normally he hates men, growls at ‘em somewhat fierce. He seems to like you though, young Master Malfoy.”_ _ _ _

____Malfoy glanced at the dog. The dog gave him another long, blank stare. “If you say so.”_ _ _ _

____“He didn’ae bite ya’, laddie.” The witch handed Hermione the change for the book and held her hand out expectantly to Malfoy. “Now let’s see what ya’ go’.”_ _ _ _

____Hermione found herself waiting for Malfoy to finish his purchase. They left the shop together._ _ _ _

____“What did you see back there, Ms. Wandmaker's Sight?” He didn’t mention it but the random stillness reminded him of his crazy Aunt. He was pretty sure she would hate the comparison._ _ _ _

____“Her wand was made of cypress… I’ve never felt a completed cypress wand before, only the unfinished wood. They’re quite rare and usually only find their mate’s in those of noble descent with a particular penchant for bravery and self-sacrifice.” She wandered along Hogsmeade with Malfoy, enjoying the sight of the few witches and wizards who lived in the small village._ _ _ _

____It was a welcome change from the business of Diagon Alley and London. A brisk breeze lifted her hair, made her shiver._ _ _ _

____“What else?” Malfoy slowly steered them to the pub, out of the path of the man in raggedy robes glaring at them as they passed._ _ _ _

____Hermione looked at him out of the corner of her eye. It almost seemed as if her once silver-haired nemesis was strangely perceptive of her. She decided to share her thoughts. Maybe he would have some insights since he came from one of the old wizarding families talked about in those stupid tomes on the Wandmaker's Sight in the library. At any rate, Neville trusted him and he had a good grasp of who was worthy of his trust. “Her magic sounded like… a piano played at midnight... it echoed. It was quite lovely, really.”_ _ _ _

____He held the door open for her and she entered in a far-less dramatic fashion than her last visit. “You hear the wands when magic is used? I thought you… I don’t know /see/ it since it’s called the Sight?”___ _

______She shrugged. “It’s more of a feeling than anything else… similar to using wandless magic.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______His brows drew together. That sounded strangely like the elemental magic his family was known for, the kind he felt. He was able to perform wandless magic though he rarely used the trick. “You feel the magic, eh?”_ _ _ _ _ _

______She nodded and took a seat at a small table by the window, watching the candles flicker with her movement. “Also, Malfoy. Why did your mum invite me to some evening gala?”_ _ _ _ _ _

______He blinked, waving over the boy wiping at the counter. “She did?”_ _ _ _ _ _

______Hermione nodded and smiled at the barkeep’s assistant when they placed their orders._ _ _ _ _ _

______“It must be the benefit they’re holding for that guy who’s running for Minister of Magic.” He mused aloud, wondering if it had anything to do with having told his mum about Granger’s new talent. He knew his mother didn't hate the Golden Trio now that she knew the whole story; but, she had never once tried inviting them to family events. “You should come. I can show you some of the work Longbottom and I have been working on at the very least. We distill some of the oils and ingredients at the Manor- it might help with your research.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______Hermione gave him a measuring look. “The invitation made it seem like I should be bringing a plus one?”_ _ _ _ _ _

______He shrugged. “You can, if you want. It’s not mandatory at the gala- it’s more of a mingle event. Mum will find you a partner you don’t hate for the actual dinner.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______Hermione laughed. “I was thinking of Neville.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______Malfoy’s gray eyes caught the flash of sadness. He realized she was thinking of her two best mates- probably still off doing Auror work somewhere. “Well, Longbottom’s good company but I think Lovegood might be in town. They're an item, right?”_ _ _ _ _ _

______She hummed, taking a sip of the hot coffee she had been served. Her eyes closed in bliss._ _ _ _ _ _

______He waited until she had taken another sip and then couldn't resist needling her. “You could always go with me, Granger.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______She coughed. He laughed. “Oh come now. The paparazzi would _love _it. _Romance blooms between war hero and disease curer: a match made in Hogwarts. _”___ _ _ _ _ _ __

________She glared at him as he guffawed. “Not funny, Malfoy!”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________He waggled an eyebrow and sipped his tea, vaguely marveling at the fact that she hadn’t outright hexed him for the suggestion. He'd been ready with his wand in his sleeve too. “You’re right, Skeeter’s headline would be more ridiculous.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________Hermione huffed and stared at the pure amusement on his face for a second. She smirked. _“The Ferret and the Bookworm.” _____ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________He groaned. "Can we just forget that happened?"_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________She grinned evilly. "Nope."_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________~*~_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _


	11. Chapter 11

The trust of the innocent is the liar’s most useful tool. –Stephen King

She woke gasping for breath in the dark. The sheets were tangled around her neck and her arms, hot and suffocating. She felt moisture on her face, someone else’s breathing above her body, and her scream turned into magic. 

The air around her froze, ice crystals forming over her skin. 

/Crucio…. and the sound of Bellatrix’s cackling./

“Fuck, Granger! It’s me! Stop!” Malfoy’s curse was loud. His voice gravelly and mad. 

She opened her eyes and squinted in the darkness of the shadowed moonlight. “What the fuck are you doing, Malfoy. Why are you here?”

Malfoy shook pieces of snow and ice off himself and helped her unwrap herself from the blankets and pick herself up off the floor of her guest room of the Inn in Hogsmeade. He didn’t answer, instead waving away the will-o-wisp dancing over their shoulders. She watched as he warmed his skin with small flames of wandless magic, registering the skill in the back of her mind while she shook the fog of sleep away.

“Why are you in my room, Malfoy?” Hermione’s voice was still cold, but the anger was fading. Her hands were still despite the adrenaline rushing through her. Her breath coming out in small puffs of fog. The magic was still ebbing off her skin in small shards of ice, uncontrolled. Her wand was shooting sparks on the bed stand. 

He frowned at her blank eyes. “You were screaming in your sleep. I was next door, remember? I thought you were in trouble or something.” 

Her brows drew together. She hadn’t had nightmares in a long time. Usually it was Harry or Ron or Kreacher that woke her when she was screaming. She still felt unsettled, the feeling of blood and rage washing over her in waves. It wasn’t… the usual feeling she got from her nightmares. “Do you feel that?”

His head cocked to the side and his eyes narrowed- silver gray in the half-light. He observed the way the witch light entered hers. The Sight truly was amazing sometimes… even when the witch using it was borderline murdering him. “No.”

“Listen. Something triggered me. It’s still here.” She closed her eyes and picked up her wand, stopping the red sparks. Her head cocked and her brown curls, mussed form the nightmare, drifted just slightly over her shoulder.

Malfoy sighed and closed his eyes, following her lead. He opened his inner sense to the world. It rarely worked for him away from his family’s grounds but he could try. 

After all, Potter and Weasel weren’t here to take care of her. And Longbottom and McGonagall would kill him if anything happened to her while he was around. 

If he could go back to being the bratty boy who wouldn’t have cared about these people, he… probably wouldn’t. Damn it. He was turning into a softy. 

This was all Longbottom’s fault.

Hermione shifted, listening closely, but the feeling was fading. The rage and horror melting away like snow. She listened to the drips, the echoes of the emotion that had forced her into her worst memories while she slept… and then she knew what it was.

“Marcus’ wand felt like this.” She opened her eyes and turned to Malfoy, surprised to find his eyes still closed. 

He was facing east- the direction of the fading feeling. His voice was softer, lower, when he spoke, the sound hushed and fitting for the small, dark room. “That feeling is bordering uncontrolled. The land is rejecting it.”

Her eyebrow rose at his words, not quite understanding it. “I don’t think it’s Marcus though.”

Malfoy’s eyes opened, glinting silver in the faint light of the waning moon. “He doesn’t strike me as having that sort of blood lust.”

“Blood lust?” Hermione questioned, shivering as the cold breeze rattled the shutters of the small structure. “An old death eater, perhaps?”

Malfoy shrugged and accio’ed his broom from the foyer of the inn. “More than likely. Come on, Granger. We’re heading back to the castle.”

Hermione tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear and adjusted her top and pants. “Wouldn’t it be safer to stay here until sunrise?”

The blonde-haired young man scoffed. “Death eaters don’t care if it’s day or night. Sit in front of me. You’re in danger if it’s a death eater.” 

Shaken, she didn’t hesitate following his suggestions. She would be a great target for any of Voldemort’s old crowd and Neville trusted him. Still, she had to ask. “Why are you helping me, Malfoy?”

“Longbottom- or Potter and Weasley would kill me if they knew I got you drunk and then shit happened.” He smirked when she let out a small laugh. “I have no desire to die.”

She nodded and barely refrained from squeaking when the broom lifted off from the ground. Musn’t let the ferret know she was terrified of heights. “Malfoy?” She felt his arm wind around her waist. 

“Granger?” He mocked. 

“Sorry for almost freezing you.” She shrank back against him as he guided the broom out of the window and into the night, feeling the slight flash of magic as he covered them in an invisibility spell. 

He laughed. “I’m sorry for waking you. Now hold on.”

They zoomed off. 

~*~

Hermione brushed off her cloak easily as she stepped out of the floo, having used the one in the old witch’s bookshop to travel from Hogsmeade back to London. “Ollivander!” she called out. 

“Ms. Granger!” He appeared at the head of the stairs, breathing heavily with a slight wheeze. The old wandmaker almost collapsed into the window seat, placing the book she had ordered beside himself. 

She frowned and hurried to get the eucalyptus oil. A wave of her wand, and she had set a small bowl of oil over a candle flame. The scent of the eucalyptus began to drift around the room with the spring breeze. She also poured him a glass of water which he refused. 

“I’m right as rain, dear girl.” He waggled his eyebrow. “Now, what did you learn about essential oils on your trip?”

She gave him a long measuring look and when it appeared his breathing was going quickly back to normal, she settled at his feet and pulled out her notebook. “I believe that like wand woods, oils can be used to enhance the magic of a core and wandless magic. There are many, many stories about the use of oils to enhance magical rituals- in both muggle and wizarding history books.”

“So says the author of this book you had sent here. Seems to be a brilliant fellow.” Ollivander picked up her scrolls and pulled out his reading glasses to look them over. He looked up suddenly, listening. “You have a visitor in the shop downstairs, Ms. Granger.”

She blinked, derailed in her report of her findings. “Oh?” 

“Yes, if you do not mind, I shall stay here and catch my breath. This eucalyptus oil is quite useful for the lungs if not for wands.” His eyes twinkled when she smiled at him. 

“It seems it may be useful for wands as well, Ollivander. I have written about it in my notes. Page. 23, I believe. Shall I go see the customer myself, then?” She was quite confused. She hadn’t been allowed to do that yet for good reason. She had just started learning, after all.

“It’s a visitor, dear. They already have a wand, well-matched, from my shop.” He went back to reading. “Off you go!”

He waved her a way and bemused, she went, realizing she had quite missed his eccentric, charming company. 

The stairs creaked under her as she quickly made her way down, absently straightening some of the wayward curls of her hair. “Yes? How can I help you today?”

“Good afternoon, Ms. Granger.” Lucius Malfoy’s voice was quiet in the confines of the small shop. “How do you fare today?”

Hermione barely kept the surprise from her face. “Good afternoon, Mr. Malfoy. I am doing well. How are you doing?”

He took a small step closer. She noticed the head of his cane had been changed to a dragon protecting an emerald. “A certain amount of circumspection will be required of my next words and, indeed, of my visit here.”

Hermione’s eyebrow rose, she subtly settled on the balls of her feet and her wand warmed in her hands. Heartbeat slowed, gaze sharpened, alight with magic. “The war is over, Mr. Malfoy. Whatever you have to say should be carefully thought over.”

He watched her for a moment, realizing that his son may be more fascinated than his mother had guessed. She had the Sight... such witches had always fascinated wizarding heirs of the old lineages. “I have come here to give you a warning, Ms. Granger.”

Her eyes narrowed, the sixth sense of her Sight stilling. His wand was quiet and obedient to his will. A well-tamed Spruce wand with a dragon heartstring core. 

“Your Auror friends are clumsily stumbling into something bigger than they imagine. I am only on the fringes and do not know what entrapments lay ahead of them. They must be warned, Ms. Granger, to move forward /carefully/.” He took a step closer and lifted his sleeve, showing her a series of numbers.

She blinked at them and then wrote them down quickly on her own arm with a spare quill. “You understand that I can not contact them when they are on a mission.”

“You are nothing if not resourceful, according to my son’s stories.” He erased the numbers, lowered his sleeve, and stepped back. The emerald on his cane began to glow. “You must also be careful, Ms. Granger, perhaps more so. I’m sure you understand that you are hated more than Potter or Weasley.” 

She cocked her head to the side, watching the emerald’s glow fade and thinking back on her recent interactions with Malfoy. Maybe his father had turned a new leaf as well? “What is your role in this?”

Lucius straightened his sleeves with a quick, sharp movement that reminded her of the muggle aristocracy. “Severus Snape was my son’s godfather and my close friend, Ms. Granger. He left my family his belongings after the Dark Lord murdered him. In his belongings were his memories- pensieve, and I can not be proud that I did not have the courage to do what he did.”

She crossed her arms and inwardly rolled her eyes, having gotten similar spiels from other former Voldemort supporters. She considered almost all an attempt at retaining their positions in society after the fall of their precious, muggle-hating Dark Lord. “It is /fascinating/ how many people share your sentiment.”

The emerald’s glow had faded and he rubbed it with his thumb momentarily. “Ms. Granger, I am aware of… what the war meant to you and, indeed, to all English wizarding kind. While I will never favor the company of muggles… neither do I still believe that they are poisoning the very fabric of magic.”

She shifted her feet, uncomfortable with the confession… Still, it was Malfoy’s father. She could give this man politeness at the very least. Ollivander would be disappointed if she didn’t. “If all of that is true, why are you involved in what appears to be dark activities being investigated by Aurors?”

Lucius looked at the towering cases of wands. “Ollivander has deemed you worthy, Ms. Granger. Do well by him.”

“It is I who hopes to do well by Ms. Granger, Lucius.” Ollivander made his way down the stairs. He peered at the silver-haired, cloaked man in the gloom of his shop and then used his cane to point to the glowing emerald. “It was a pleasure to see you again, Lord Malfoy.” 

Malfoy nodded before turning to leave the shop. “We will see you at the gala, Ollivander, Ms. Granger.” 

Ollivander huffed as the shop door closed. He turned to Hermione who looked at him bemused for a moment then stared at her wrist. “I had best use the floo to get to Kingsley.”

“Yes. If Mr. Malfoy is here, it can not be good.” He ran a hand through his ruffled hair, ruffling it more. “He was the Dark Lord’s obedient servant until Snape was killed right at the end of the war, Ms. Granger. Beware his motive.”

She nodded before heading to the floo, memorizing the numbers and wiping them off her skin. She took her ratty old jacket and a pair of her magicked gloves with her just in case.

“Kingsley Shackelbolt’s office, Ministry of Magic.” She threw the powder down and hoped Harry and Ron were alright.

~*~


	12. Chapter 12

“The only way to make a man trustworthy is to trust him.” –Harry L Stimson

Draco’s eyes narrowed when he saw his father sneak out of Ollivander’s shop, hackles rising. His father never sneaked… the only time he had ever sneaked was when the Dark Lord had chosen to gift his ancestral home with his presence. 

He sighed. Here, if anything, was confirmation his father was involved in dark activities. Again. 

At the very least, he supposed he should check on Granger and Ollivander. He didn’t need his father mucking things up with whatever working relationship he could get with someone as established as Ollivander. He stepped into the shop quietly, faced with the piercing gaze of the wizened wandmaker himself. “Good afternoon, sir.” 

“Young Mr. Malfoy. What brings you to my shop?” The wandmaker rested both of his gnarled hands on the top of his staff. It was a simple, elegant length of wood, designed like the old staves of wizarding kind and no doubt filled with a core that could be served to augment magic in the way of wands. 

“Is Ms. Granger in? I had thought she might like to walk to the Apothecary for a tour of their supply room. She has been doing research on essential oils and I assist in the creation of many that are used by the Herbalist down the way.” He barely kept himself from fiddling with his gloves as the wandmaker’s gaze sharpened. 

“Why are you really here, Mr. Malfoy?” The candles flickered around the shop, a cold wind blowing in from under the door. 

Draco straightened, his eyes narrowing. He met the older wizard’s gaze evenly, magic beginning to flow through him just a bit, enough to make his skin warm. Ollivander straightened at his response, a glimmer of respect entering that piercing gaze. “I saw my father leave here moments ago, Ollivander.” He paused when the wizened man’s eyes grew harder. “Ms. Granger does not need to be placed in undue danger. Our mutual friend, Mr. Neville Longbottom, would likely string me up if anything happens to her.” 

“It is true that Ms. Granger is a lovely young lady.” The candles flickered, the wind died down a bit and the old man sighed. “It is also true that the father and the son may not follow the same creed.” 

The silence of the small shop was broken by the sound of the wood groaning with age from the wind outside. Ollivander breathed a gusty sigh. “Mr. Malfoy, Ms. Granger has no knowledge of the world she will step into as she continues her training here. She has the potential to be as great or greater than Gregorovitch himself. In my age, after the war, I have stepped back from society.”

He paused and Draco found himself filling the silence, oddly touched by the unspoken request from the old wandmaker. “Ms. Granger and I have not had a long history of being friends- indeed, we are but acquaintances; but, the dream of a world that brings magic forward, that brings wizarding kind into a future of progress and equality is one we both share. That dream, despite everything that happened, was something Dumbledore instilled in all of his students- Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, Gryffindor, and Slytherin.” 

Ollivander gave a small huffing laugh. “She is quite stubborn, young Malfoy. She will not accept help easily.”

“She is not likely to need my help. As you said, she is an extraordinary witch already.” Draco chuckled. 

“Well then, my boy, perhaps you can go upstairs and fetch Ms. Granger’s notes. I shall like to go over them with you since you have some expertise in the matter.” Ollivander conjured a blue and silver scarf and began to shuffle over to a coat rack by the door. “We shall go over them at the Leaky Cauldron with some excellent tea.”

Draco moved to obey, climbing quickly up the rickety stairs and moving to place his hand on the old, carved door. His eyes widened a second before he felt the spell ripple through it. 

Ollivander blinked at the rumpled heap of olive green and black robes at the base of the stairs. A few wands had fallen from their shelves with the explosion. “Oh.” 

The pile groaned and a bleary-eyed Malfoy shifted over to a knee, his silver hair askew. He seemed largely unhurt, though shaken. He coughed and his breath came out in a small puff of smoke. 

“Oh, my boy. I am sorry. I forgot about the protection spell. Just a mo’. Go ahead and gather yourself, young Malfoy.” Ollivander apparated with a pop and reappeared seconds later with the small pile of notes. “Are you quite alright, young Malfoy?”

“Yes, Ollivander. Scourgify.” His wands were cleaned and in order quickly. He smoothed his hair back and put on his gloves, well aware that if he showed any weakness or lack of grace to Ollivander that whatever small measure of respect he had managed to gain would be gone instantly. “A cup of tea will be lovely. May I hold those for you?”

“Thank you.” He led the way out of the shop, walking slowly and shivering when the wind hit them outside. 

Draco muttered a small warming spell for him and waited for him to lock the door. Blithely ignoring the looks of curiosity from passersby, the pair of them walked down the crowded streets of Diagon Alley towards the Inn at the end. 

The silver-haired Malfoy heir wondered what Granger would say when she found out he had tea with her mentor. She would likely get annoyed. 

The thought made him grin. 

~*~

Hermione stared evenly at the dark-haired, brown-eyed man across from her. “Where did you come by the information, Ms. Granger?”

“As I have stated, I must see the Minister.” Hermione didn’t flinch when she saw the anger in his eyes. Unfortunately for this power-absorbed clown she wasn’t one to succumb to the illusion of influence. She knew who she needed to speak to and more importantly, who she could trust with the lives of her best friends. This assistant didn’t make the list. 

She wondered if he knew he was behaving like a stooge, a jester, a chess piece. She kept her hands placed in her lap, spine straight in the way Ollivander often reprimanded her for. Her robe sleeves were just long enough that they met the knuckles of her hands and she would be able to discretely get her wand if required. 

“The Minister is clearly a busy man who can not make time for frivolity, Ms. Granger. You can either give me your information and I will determine if it is worth the Minister’s time or I shall have to ask you to leave.” The stooge even stood up behind the desk. He was rather pasty. 

Hermione stood. With herculean effort she managed to keep her countenance and tone light and pleasant. “What is your name?”

“Percival Anontinus.” He seemed rather proud of the name and she suspected he was from the old families. It would explain the snooty air.

“Well, Percy,” she said with a barely-there smirk, “it may have escaped your notice but I have been granted Unusually High Diplomatic and Security Clearance. In essence, should I deem it worthy, I report to whomever I see fit within and without the confines of the government for the sake of British Wizarding-kind.” 

He frowned. She almost hexed him.

“You may check with the appropriate personnel if you need to; but, you are aware of who I am.” The rest was unspoken, he had paled beyond pasty to some weird sort of alabaster. It was quite unattractive. She was a war hero, trusted by the Minister of Magic and the “Savior of Britain”, Harry Potter himself. 

She sat down once more. “I will wait.” 

At that very moment, while the stooge contemplated the damage he had done to his career, Shackelbolt chose to enter with a small retinue of advisors. “Hermione!” his voice boomed out. “What brings you here?”

She grinned, stood, and found herself ensconced in a huge bear hug. He smelled like all-spice, the stale air of meeting rooms, parchment and ink. His dark hair was shot through with white and grey and there were some wrinkles around his eyes. His grin was as wide as always and she smiled back to see it. “Hello, Kingsley. I have some information I wanted you to pass on to whoever needs to know.”

“For you, my dear, anything. Come. Gentlemen, Ladies, “ Kingsley nodded at his small retinue, “please take an hour to work on whatever you need to. We shall reconvene in the blue meeting room. Someone come get me if I get caught up.” 

She was swept forward and within seconds they were in his office. It reminded her of Dumbledore’s office- there were gadgets and esoteric portraits, pensieve and scrolls, books and comfy armchairs everywhere. Immediately a small fire flared to life in the fireplace and she relaxed at the scent of tea. 

“Are there secrecy spells here, Kingsley?” Her question got a sharp look and short nod. She took off her outer cloak and the Minister’s eyes took in the ratty jacket and tattered gloves. He knew they were magicked and he knew she would not have worn them if she felt safe. “Harry and Ron may be in danger. I don’t know anymore than that. I was given a set of numbers by Lucius Malfoy.”

“Malfoy is on the fringes of the die hards, Hermione. Having said that, he has been giving us some good intel.” He smirked when he saw her eyebrow rise, moving to pour the sweet-scented tea. “Says he was inspired by Severus Snape and by his son and wife.”

Hermione took the tea and smiled at the scent. Ice wine tea from across the pond. It was hard to come by and she knew it was hard for Kingsley to share since he loved it so. She settled in one of the chairs in front of his desk. “Narcissa Malfoy could have killed Harry before he had the chance to finish Voldemort. I don’t know if I can trust her, such cultural change is generational and they were avid Death Eaters until the very end; but, they played their part, I suppose.” 

Kingsley hummed, eyes closed, enjoying his tea. “What were Malfoy’s exact words?” 

She recited easily as she leaned forward and wrote down the numbers on a spare piece of parchment. “Your Auror friends are clumsily stumbling into something bigger than they imagine. I am only on the fringes and do not know what entrapments lay ahead of them. They must be warned, Ms. Granger, to move forward /carefully/.” She watched Kingsley pick up the note. “Then he showed me these numbers on his wrist. He wiped them as soon as I had written them down on my own.” 

“His information has been good so far though I wonder at him using you to share this at this time. He usually manages to find one of our undercover Aurors on their downtime.” Kingsley threw the parchment in the fire and Hermione knew that whatever the information was, it was truly important enough or dangerous enough to leave no paper trail. 

“He was being tailed. He uses the emerald on his cane to know when his chaser is getting too close. It sparked twice when he was speaking with me at Ollivander’s just now.” She sighed. She didn’t want to get caught up in this mess anymore. She had played her part. 

Kingsley watched her for a second as the lights flickered on in his office, tuned to the dying of the sun outside the windows. He sighed. “You’re not going to like it, Ms. Granger; but, I think you will have to become more visible. It will offer you protection against those that hunt Harry and Ron… and you.” 

She closed her eyes and leaned her head back. The fight never ended. There were always more battles. Always more memories to shade her dreams with nightmares. “Who can I trust as an ally if I start stepping into high society?” 

“Neville and Luna, obviously. Ginny is used to it having come from an old family. She’ll be back with the Harpies for the training season soon. The Patil twins, the Godfreys, the Bones’- particularly Susan Bones… Draco Malfoy would be the only one of the aristocrat crowd I would trust. He has been more useful than his father and he has gained the trust of Longbottom who no longer gives his trust easily.” Kingsley’s inclusion of Malfoy surprised her and it must have shown on her face. “You have been seen dining with him and Longbottom. Of all the Death Eaters who were acquitted of crimes, Malfoy was one of the few whose apology rang sincere.” 

Hermione nodded. She had been there. She had heard who had been sincere and who had been paying lip service. “I still don’t trust him.” 

“Good. He can guide you through learning how to navigate high society when I or one of the others is not there, of course.” Kingsley grinned. “I heard you drank him under the table with fire whiskey.”

She giggled. “Of course, I did. The Weasley twins taught me how to drink fire whiskey. There is no way I’d ruin that legacy with Malfoy.”

His booming chuckle filled the room. When the echoes of it faded, the silence was softer, both lost in thoughts. “Harry and Ron will be safe, Hermione. Lucius’ warning was preemptive, the intel he gave will be checked and passed on appropriately.”

She nodded, the knot of worry always around her heart at the thought of her boys in danger tightening just a bit. If they needed her, they knew how to contact her in an emergency. There were safeguards around them. Still, she worried. “I trust you, Kingsley.”

The silence grew again. They finished their tea and Hermione stood to go, thoughts of all the challenges she would have to face, the memories of the challenges she had already faced, swirling in her head. There were moments after the war when she absolutely loathed that she had been involved, when she wished she could just be normal and not have to worry about being hunted, not have to worry about providing a good face to the press, not have to worry about her best friends walking into a death trap. Sometimes, she just missed having her friends, having her family, having her parents there to remind her what she was fighting for. 

Did the war every truly end?

Before Shacklebolt gave her a goodbye hug, he held her at arms length, hands on her shoulders, something like fatherly pride in his eyes. “They say a Wandmaker can know a person’s story from his or her wand. Use that intuition as you start this new journey. Keep those gloves close and if you need a friend to practice wandless magic with, send me an owl. I will find time in my schedule, Ms. Granger.” 

Hermione felt tears prick the corners of her eyes. All of the emotions swirling beneath her skin tightened her throat with heat. She nodded with a shaky breath and found herself engulfed in a bear hug again. Somehow, she managed to control herself and when they parted she gave him a tremulous smile. 

In return, Kingsley smiled before his smile faded and his next words were as gentle as could be, knowing what it would mean to his old friend. “There are some healers who have some promising research regarding memory spells, Ms. Granger. They are testing it now. If they succeed, we may have a cure for your parents.” 

The tears came back and she closed her eyes, feeling them roll down her cheeks. She was enfolded in a hug once more. Her voice when it came out was fragile. “I just want it to be over, Kingsley. We won the war.” 

“Deep breath, Hermione. Deep breath.” She obeyed, let it out. Back in, out. He conjured a tissue for her to wipe her eyes and blow her nose. “The battle was won, the war is still going on.” 

She sighed, drawing on her gloves, tracing the lines cut into the leather with a despondent finger. “It is important to fight and fight again, and keep fighting, for only then can evil be kept at bay though never quite eradicated.”

Shacklebolt smiled. “Dumbledore was a wise man.” 

She nodded, straightened her shoulders and looked up clear-eyed. “It was lovely to see you again, Kingsley. Let me know when you have free time to spar. I have been lazy of late. No doubt you will win easily.”

Kingsley chuckled. “I am old. You, young lady, will have the advantage. Every Monday at dawn. I shall meet you at Grimmauld Place.” 

Hermione nodded and smiled beatifically at the snooty assistant as she left the office. 

She wondered if she should invest in a dog or a cat for some additional protection at the house. Kreacher was wonderful but ultimately she didn’t want anything to happen to him either.


	13. Chapter 13

“The fishermen know that the sea is dangerous and the storm terrible, but they have never found these dangers sufficient reason for remaining ashore.” –Vincent Van Gogh

Chapter 12: 

Hermione woke to the feeling of cold air on her sleep-warm skin, the scent of frost outside her windows touching her senses. Her fire had died to embers, the small glow not enough to lighten her dawn-dark room. She heard Kreacher downstairs clanging a pot and cursing at himself for making noise. 

Earlier that morning, she had woken on the edges of a nightmare, a scream caught in her throat and forcefully strangled by sheer force of will. 

/Crucio./ 

God, she hated Bellatrix. After some long, deep breaths, some twisting and turning, she had managed to fall asleep again and when she had woken, the tension was still there. It was ebbing to a stiffness in her limbs, in her neck and shoulders. She frowned, irritated that she was still suffering from memories long enough past. Why were they reappearing now when they hadn’t haunted her for so long? 

She sighed, rolled onto her elbow with one hand in her mussed curly hair and froze. Goosebumps rose on her skin, a tangible trace of horror crawling up her spine.

There, just in the distance, somewhere in the depths of London, she felt a wand, an aura, soaked in blood. It was Marcus’ wand and she surmised that she could feel it from afar because she had already opened her inner sense to it. She closed her eyes and the sensation was gone. Maybe she had imagined it? 

Unbidden, Dumbledore’s words came back to her. It is important to fight and fight again, and keep fighting, for only then can evil be kept at bay though never quite eradicated.

Whatever this evil was that had taken Marcus’ wand, she was quite sure she was to play a part in the snuffing of it. Harry and Ron weren’t here to save her this time.

She sighed and got up, grimacing when her feet made contact with the cold floor instead of her semi-cold slippers. Quickly she slipped them on and shuffled sleepily to her wardrobe, the lights flickering on with a muttered lumos and wave of her hand. 

In a hard fight, wandless magic was the difference between surviving and dying. She would need to get used to practicing it again. Though, she cocked her head to the side as she sifted through her sweater dresses, the practice was coming back to her surprisingly quickly. It likely had to do with her training in wandmaking. It was very intuitive and, as she had described to Neville’s students, very similar to the practice of wandless magic. 

She selected a white dress, some warm, black woolen tights and a scarlet scarf. They would pair well with her long boots. Function and fashion was something she was getting better at if she could say so herself.

She needed to dress up a bit today as she was going to meet the herbalist at the Apothecary with Malfoy. She wanted to make a good impression in case Ollivander wanted to use some of the Apothecary products for wand enhancement. 

Horrifying memories and possibly horrifying future notwithstanding, she had to focus on the present. Even if it meant dressing up to kiss up to someone she had never met before in her life… in Malfoy’s strangely astute presence.

Oh, Lord… she was going to embarrass herself, wasn’t she?

“Would Ms. Hermy like some tea?” Winky came in with a tray. “Kreacher is making some breakfast for us, Ms. Hermy. He says it should be ready momentarily.”

“Oh, thank you! You didn’t have to bring it up.” She smiled and took a sip. Kreacher was always so considerate. It didn’t matter how many times she told him he didn’t have to get up early to make breakfast, he still did. It still surprised her, considering how much he had hated her simply for existing in the house before. Something had changed after they had fixed the house and he genuinely seemed to like her now. “I’ll just take a quick shower and come down. I have a big day ahead of me, Winky!”

“What is Ms. Hermy doing?” Winky sat on the edge of her bed and kicked her shoes out. Hermione smiled when she caught sight of them. They were small pumps with bright red bows. Children’s shoes but they looked adorable on her and matched her dress perfectly.

Winky had good fashion sense. 

“I am going to see the Apothecary herbalist today to learn more about essential oils.” Hermione stepped into the shower and left the door open so she could keep talking to Winky. “Ollivander may use some of the oils for wand enhancement.”

“May I change Miss’ outfit? The herbal man doesn’t like red. His house-elf, Mink, told me it ‘minds him of blood.” She heard Winky rummage through her wardrobe, the sound of drawers opening and closing. Something was thrown out and thumped back.

“Go for it, Winky!” Hermione called out and stuck her head under the shower, letting the hot water soothe her tight neck.

When she came out there was a forest green scarf with gold trimming laid over the dress and Winky had gone back downstairs. She sighed. She only wore that scarf for diplomatic events to make it seem like she liked Slytherins. 

She went about getting ready, selecting a long elegant black cloak to go over her clothes and her finest witch’s hat to go over her vaguely stylized hair. Some mascara and some rouge on her mouth completed the picture. 

The only thing left was the scarf. She grimaced as she put it on.

Ugh. Malfoy was going to have a field day. 

~*~

Hermione heard music like a piano waft up around the eves and through the plants tumbling down and over in the apothecary. The scent of wood, of rain, of acidity and oil came to her as her footsteps slowed, muffled on the carpets covering the oak floors. The sound of the piano grew more resplendent, higher notes like bells piercing the shadows of the room like stars in her head. She blinked and stood to one side as patrons of the shop passed her. 

She was vaguely aware that Malfoy had stopped beside her, the folds of his emerald green cloak an almost perfect match to her scarf. He was watching her with something that looked like understanding in his quicksilver eyes and shockingly, she could only feel grateful as the inner sense she used for wandmaking seemingly took over. Not quite sure how to control it, she let herself listen until the spell was finished, Malfoy a strange comfort at her side. 

The spell being cast was a protection spell for the blood, weaving itself into a potion that felt like cold snow. It reminded her of wind brushing through a sea of tall, almost frozen grass. She focused on the spellcaster’s wand, trying to figure out how to control this new, increasingly enhanced magical sense. 

Alder with a unicorn hair core, made by Ollivander himself. She smiled. Alder wood wands were known for being unyielding but their owners were usually likeable and helpful people. It was a wand wood best suited for non-verbal spellwork and helped to augment wandless magic most delightfully. Whoever the spellcaster was, he or she had a wand that was only suited for advanced witches and wizards. 

She opened her eyes as the sound of the piano, the wind in tall grass faded. She could feel the spell take hold in the potion and knew without a doubt that it would be an effective treatment for whatever the ailment was. 

The corner of her mouth lifted as a stray thought passed her mind. Perhaps witch doctors weren’t kooks after all. 

Malfoy waited patiently beside her while she gathered herself, and she found herself blushing under his quiet but observant gaze. She fidgeted with her gloves as an elderly couple left the shop, smiling at them beatifically. “Sorry, Malfoy. The,” she found herself struggling to describe what happened and settled on the term she had been described with by others, “Sight, seems to take over sometimes. Particularly around powerful magic.”

He didn’t answer for a long moment, taking the time to remove his own gloves. “My family has a touch of it so I do understand, Granger. Not as strong as yours or Ollivader but enough to know it can be an asset… and an inconvenience.” He smirked, deciding to ignore the charming blush on her face. “Nothing another stolen shot of fire whiskey can’t cure.”

She rolled her eyes and looked curiously around the Apothecary. 

“Panacea!” Malfoy placed a gentle hand on Hermione’s back and nudged her forward through the plants and potion bottles, the small tinkling instruments and glowing gemstones. He leaned down a touch and murmured into her ear before they rounded the customer counter and went into a backroom. “Close off your Sight or you’re going to have stellar headache when you get out of here, Granger.”

She mumbled. “I don’t know how to do that, Malfoy.” 

He frowned down at her. “Then you will allow me to escort you to Pomphet’s after for a Chocolate Dream pastry.” 

She didn’t get the chance to reply as a curly haired witch with huge, green eyes came out from behind a chemistry apparatus. Something blue was bubbling within like a small glacier falling into the ocean over and over. 

She stopped looking. Already feeling the headache behind her eyes. Magic was amazing and weird at the same time.

“Good afternoon, Draco! Good afternoon, Ms. Granger. I am Panacea. My father and I run the Apothecary here at Diagon Alley. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” She stripped off gloves as she spoke, dropping them into a trash bin that ate them and let out a burp. It scuttled off somewhere. 

“Please, call me Hermione. It’s a pleasure to meet you as well and thank you for taking the time to meet with me.” Hermione smiled as the slight witch walked over to the basin and began washing her hands. “I must say I find your shop fascinating.”

“The Healing arts are amongst the most magical of magicks.” Panacea twirled around, her long, cream-colored dress swirling around her ankles. “That much has always been known to those of us that study healing.”

Hermione smiled. She liked this curly-haired, green-eyed witch. She seemed open and friendly and she had clearly mastered healing spellwork based on the sound of her wand from moments ago. “Well, I’m not sure how much Malfoy told you; but, Ollivander is interested in studying the use of essential oils for the enhancement of wandmaking and repair. I have been tasked with analyzing the idea and I am hoping we can develop a friendship that can bring the idea forward if it shows promise.” 

Panacea wiped her hands on a seemingly dirty rag. “I think it shows a lot of promise. I came across something like it when my sister and I were traveling through India. I would love to help you out. You have a reputation for brilliance and I suspect I will learn as much from you as you will from me.”

Hermione’s eyes lit up. “I hope so! Perhaps we can go to Pomphet’s and get to know one another and our respective subjects a little bit better?”

“That would be wonderful.” She took off her apron and charmed over her cloak. “Malfoy is also quite brilliant at making essential oils. I suppose we should bring him along.”

He simply raised an eyebrow, clearly used to her teasing tone. Hermione watched with fascination as Panacea raised an eyebrow back. She wondered how old their friendship was and if it was more than a friendship. 

“He has told me quite a bit about you, Hermione! I believe his specific words were,” she winked mischievously at a suddenly pink and glowering Malfoy, “brilliant, beautiful, and can knock me down in 2 seconds flat.” 

Hermione laughed at his expression. Clearly, Panacea was a compatriot in her ongoing quest to bring Malfoy down a peg. “I do hope he was referring to my ability to drink him under the table with fire whiskey.”

Panacea giggled. “He does get quite rosy with some fire whisky in him, no?”

“Red as a rose, I’d say.” 

They both watched as the color in his cheeks grew darker and he looked between them before grumbling under his breath and leading the way out of the apothecary.


	14. Chapter 14

The only way to have a friend, is to be one. –Ralph Waldo Emerson

Hermione and Panacea were leaning forward in their chairs, bent over the book Hermione had ordered in Hogsmeade. Their voices were a low, excited murmur as Panacea expanded on the different recipes and oils found in the text and how Hermione might use them for wandwork. Their cloaks, white and black with scarves in shades of green were draped over the backs of their chairs, reminding him of Slytherin banners. Some ghosts were hovering over their heads, listening in and offering their own opinions on the conversation, with the knowledge of ages past.

Paces away, comfortably settled in an old scarlet armchair before the non-Floo fireplace of the Hog’s Head Inn, Draco found himself forcibly controlling the smile that quirked the corner of his mouth at the sight of them. Their curls were intermingling, Granger’s darker chestnut with Panacea’s burnt gold. He shook his head when they both gasped, looked at each other and squealed like idiots before Granger bent over her notes paper and scribbled something down furiously. 

Clearly, they were new best mates and he should have been panicking at how well they were getting along as they both had a penchant for teasing him mercilessly; but, he was just glad it was working out. They were both business associates and… friends, he supposed. He didn’t want it to be awkward amongst them. 

Besides, Granger’s work had the potential to change their world and potentially increase the aptitude of English wizards when compared with their global brethren. It would be detrimental to magical society if he didn’t do his best to help her. After all, the world of magic was fading and the terror that knowledge had inspired was enough to allow for Voldemort’s rise. 

He sank deeper into the armchair, nursing his Irish coffee and staring into the flames as his thoughts took a more sober turn. In the distance, he heard Tom greet a new customer for the Inn, the quiet chatter of the small, growing crowd in pockets around the room as they spoke with friends and family. The smell of food- meat, potatoes, and something with vinaigrette, began to waft out of the kitchens as the evening hour rang out from the old grandfather clock in the corner. 

He sighed, letting his thoughts wander towards the disturbing thought that magical kind were fading. The stronger amongst them were already being driven to the remote forests and mountains of the world and only copious anti-muggle spells were keeping them safe from discovery. Yet, even as he spoke, muggle technology was developing to the point where those spells may no longer work. 

What could dragons do when targeted with those odd ‘heat sensor’ things Charlie Weasley had been interviewed about in the Prophet?

These changes begged the question- were muggles getting stronger or was wizarding kind getting weaker? Were they just not adapting fast enough? 

According to Voldemort, it was the dilution of the old blood that was perpetuating and making worse the fading of magic. 

Malarkey. Still, there had to be a reason. He glanced at Granger as she and Panacea let out loud laughs, clearly delighted by something. 

Perhaps it was the loss of intuition and power, of the use of wandless magicks which was causing the fading. After all, wandless magic was stronger if harder to control. Modern convention was that the ability to grasp it was lost by the time one hit puberty. 

Clearly, that was bollocks or Granger could not have possibly become Ollivander’s apprentice after finishing school. The Wandmaker’s sight was an innate gift but one that was largely understood to need guidance. If that old wives tale of wandless magic was true, Granger’s talent would have faded as she grew older. 

He took a long draught of his coffee, enjoying the burn of the classic whiskey as it slid down his throat, flaring with a slow heat that filled his chest with warmth. Perhaps those thoughts were best left to another time. There wasn’t much he could do about it now.

“What a sight, eh?” A man in a green shirt- puke-colored, he thought, settled into the chair next to his side table holding a pint of ale in one sun-tanned hand. He had a French accent and his coat- also a remarkable shade of disgusting green, was casually thrown over the back of the armchair next to his. Something inside the coat clanged and Draco barely refrained from raising an eyebrow at the uninvited nature of this interaction. 

Still, he was getting bored so he followed the line of sight of the other man’s gaze and immediately felt an intense and immediate dislike for the fellow. His two lovely, female companions were the subject of his previous statement and Draco found himself quite irritated at the thought of them getting ogled by some man with an inability to find clothing that wasn’t infected-earwax-colored green. 

They glanced back at him as if sensing the regard of the strange man next to him and he noted the way Granger stopped smiling when her eyes slid over to his companion. Comparatively, Panacea’s smile grew wider and turned into a gleeful grin. 

She laughed and immediately sashayed over, gold-shaded curls bouncing, white, silken robe flaring. “Hi, Marcelus! I didn’t know you were going to be back in town.”

Hermione trailed after her, murmuring goodbyes to their ghostly companions and gathering their cloaks and scarves. She settled into the armchair Malfoy levitated over to his other side. She smiled at him politely and seemed to listen attentively while Panacea asked Marcelus about his travels abroad. 

The apothecary witch released a girlish giggle, leaning forward and putting her hand on the Frenchman’s arm as he recited some poem in a heavily accented Greek. They both watched as a blush crept up Panacea’s slender neck, as Marcelus took her hand and gave it a small kiss. 

Draco glanced at Hermione and saw her roll her eyes and look towards the barkeep. She lifted a hand and when Tom had shuffled over, asked for an Irish coffee. He couldn’t help but needle her, thoroughly bored by Panacea and her companion. “Copying me, Granger?” 

She smirked. “Irish coffee is a poor man’s drink, Malfoy. I am surprised you are drinking it.”

Marcelus chuckled. “I can see why Garrick chose you, Hermione.”

Draco watched as the other man leaned in with interest. Unbeknownst to him, his eyes narrowed. “You two know each other?”

Hermione thanked the harpy who served her coffee. “Marcelus is the one who brought the cardamom oil to Ollivander’s attention first. He had obtained it from the wandmakers of India, I believe.”

“Yes, fascinating story.” He leaned forward and Draco realized he had rolled up his shirt. Hermione’s eyes had fallen to his fairly muscled forearms. “This bloke who could levitate with wandless magic sold it to me for a small penny’s worth and told me it would enhance wandwork. Thought Ollivander might find it fascinating.”

Hermione smiled and somehow managed to sit in a very poised fashion for all that her legs were tucked comfortably under her. “We are currently conducting some research on whether such oils can be utilized for wandmaking. Panacea is helping me work through some of my notes. She’s quite brilliant.”

“Hermione’s not bad herself. It seems like it will be a good partnership.” Panacea smiled and stood up. “Shall we continue over dinner? It’s already the evening hour and the bangers and mash here are delicious. Nothing like your fancy French food but better for it, my dear Marcelus.” 

He chuckled and the sound came out rusty and low. Malfoy saw the hair on Hermione’s arms stand up and frowned at her reaction. Was that lust or fear he saw darkening her eyes? 

She blinked and then the moment was gone as he held his hand out to help her stand, mimicking Panacea. “Dinner sounds lovely, Pan. I’m fond of the shepherd’s pie here, myself.”

Malfoy smirked. “Am I correct in assuming we’ll top it off with a round of fire whiskey?”

Panacea laughed. “Oh, yes. I want to see if Hermione really can drink you under the table, Draco.”

~*~


	15. Chapter 15

_Friends… they cherish one another’s hopes. They are kind to one another’s dreams. – Henry David Thoreau_

The morning dawned with the hazy, almost-still quiet of late autumn at Number 13, Grimmauld Place. Kreacher rose, grumbling under his breath, wizened ears flopping over his eyes as scratched his tummy through the soft cloth of his newly gifted pajamas. He snapped his fingers as he groped about for his slippers and grumbled as a pot of tea began to boil on the small fireplace Master Potter had conjured in his little room near the kitchen. 

On cold mornings like this he sometimes missed his little room under the stairs. Master Potter’s eyes had gone curiously blank when he had realized where Kreacher slept and he had immediately forbidden Kreacher from staying in that room forever more. It was the only thing he had ever forbidden Kreacher from doing after the war; and, days later, he and Miss Hermy had redesigned a smaller room near the kitchen into a bedroom for Kreacher. 

He had found it most odd; but, kind. His new masters, bless the Blacks, were much kinder than his old mistress had been. Why, he hadn’t slammed his fingers in the oven for years. 

“Getting soft,” he grumbled and snapped his fingers again. A fire began roaring in the kitchen as he shuffled out, ears lifting and rotating up. 

Miss Hermy and her guests would be waking soon. He would prepare breakfast for them. 

It was proper, after all. This was the Great House of Black and, now, Potter, He who had Vanquished the Dark Lord and Granger, the Apprentice of the Great Wandmaker, Ollivander.

“Bah,” he grumbled. It was a humbling privilege to serve the Great Houses of magic. 

Perhaps the old ones were wrong. Perhaps they were not fading after all.

~*~

Draco groaned, pushing filaments of his silver hair out of his eyes and blinking blearily at the painting on the far wall. His head was going to start pounding any second- he could feel it coming, and his mouth felt like it was filled with sand. “Shit,” he hissed and rolled onto his back and almost onto someone else. “Who the fuck?”

The warm, curvy body next to him shifted and murmured something that sounded like, “Shut it, ferret.”

He blinked at the mass of dark, curly hair. Gods, his mouth was dry. Where was he?

Wait a minute. He froze.

Was that Granger?! 

_Merlin, Morgana, and Arthur- fucking- Pendragon… they did not…._

He looked down. 

He still had his clothes on. She still had her clothes on. He would live to see another day.

“Thank, Merlin,” he breathed. 

Hermione stiffened and turned over so fast she almost fell off the bed if not for his Seeker reflexes catching her arm. She stared at him through haphazard, glossy curls, eyes squinting over tangled cream and scarlet sheets. “ _Malfoy?!_ ”

He winced as her shriek started the pounding in his head. Yes, he was definitely going to be nursing a hangover until he could get his hands on one of Longbottom’s hangover potions. His voice came out gritty and low. “I seem to keep waking you from a drunken stupor these days, Granger.”

She blinked at him slowly, glanced down and seemed relieved by the presence of clothes. After a full five seconds of staring at him, she shifted up and settled next to him, pulling her hair out of her eyes and away from her neck. A wave of her hand plumped the pillows to perfection. He slid up until he was at her eye level, breathing deeply as the headache began to subside to the edges of his conscious, comfortably cocooned in the readjusted warm blankets. 

He conjured up some goblets as she waved her hand again and cracked the window just a touch. The room filled with the scent of cool, clean air, making the embers flare up and down, shifting the shadows of the room as the curtains moved. He filled the goblets with a quiet aguamenti as she closed her eyes again, obviously also trying to stem off the results of their drinking games the previous night.

They drank and refilled them, listening to the wind whistle through the leaves of the lone oak tree outside the front of Grimmauld Place. The sounds of the muggle city outside were muted, quiet enough not to trigger anymore headaches for which they could only be grateful. 

The silence was strangely comfortable and it stretched between them as they stared at the last few embers of the log in the grate. The light glimmered off the warm comforter and soft blankets in Gryffindor scarlet and burgundy. He was pleased to note that the room was dotted with shades of cream and gold to offset all that garish red. 

It reminded him of a phoenix and in the shadows with only the light of the embers and the shifting curtain illuminating the colors, it was soothing. He finished his goblet and refilled it, feeling his headache slowly disappear. 

Hermione’s stomach growled. She sighed. The light from the curtain made a fascinating pattern on her neck. “Would you like Pomphet’s? Or we can make breakfast here, if you’d like.”

“Sleeping and breakfasting together? Are we dating, Granger?” He mocked.

She huffed and threw the covers back onto his face, smirking when he groaned at the movement. She stumbled a heartbeat later, drums beating against her head, and vaguely wondered how she had managed to put her pajamas on in the drunken wee hours of the morning.

The curly-haired witch glanced down at herself again and cursed softly. Midnight blue, silky, and see-through enough that her black bra and panties could clearly be seen. She grabbed for her robe quickly, failing to see Malfoy’s appreciative glance. 

A knock at the door startled them both. 

It was Kreacher, shuffling slowly in with a levitating tray of tea and a small vial of hangover potion. The tray carried two tea cups, a kettle, and two miniature sundae glasses. Draco was amused to note small, green pajamas on the little elf and wondered how to go about providing such for his own house elves without it having the stigma of firing them.

Despite what Granger believed, his family did try and care for their staff- Dobby was a strange exception for which he wholly blamed his father’s psychopathic cruelty.

“Good morning, Miss Hermy and young Master Malfoy. Breakfast is being prepared.” He put the tray down on her vanity and creaked back towards the door. “Your other guests are still a-snooze. They have lost their clothes. I shall see about finding them some new ones, Miss Hermy.”

Hermione blinked as Kreacher grumbled away, catching something about getting snuffle-sneezes without knickers. After a moment, she ran her fingers through her hair. “Bollocks, this is a weird morning.” 

Malfoy chuckled huskily and gladly took her offering of hangover potion. “At least we have our clothes on.”

After a moment, she grinned and lifted her cup in a mock cheer. “To small victories.”

He lifted his own and they clinked the glasses before gratefully downing the potion. 

~*~

Panacea shuffled about an ancient slinky pink gown with a copious amount of ruffles, she was sipping on some tea with hangover potion mixed in, head tipped back. Love bites of stark red stood out from her neck. 

Marcellus smirked at Hermione when she lifted her eyes from the bites to him. She looked away quickly, clearly uncomfortable. 

Kreacher slammed Marcellus’ plate down in front of him, forced the napkin to tie around his neck abruptly. “Oi, elf! How dare you treat me this way?!”

The old elf froze and for the first time since the war was declared over, looked at Hermione with fear on his face. “Kreacher is sorry, Miss Hermy, Master Marcellus. Kreacher is sorry.”

Her mouth turned down, she shook her head and turned to Marcellus with a straight back. “It’s alright, Kreacher. I forbid you from punishing yourself for a harmless mistake. Marcellus, this is my home and the ancestral home of the Black family, now the Potter family. I expect my guests to behave accordingly.”

He was instantly contrite. “Of course, Hermione. I misspoke. Please, Kreacher, it was an honest mistake. Thank you for serving me.” 

Malfoy was impressed with the ease that Granger put on the affronted Lady persona. He ruffled Kreacher’s ears as the pajama-clad elf shuffled by. “Well done, old boy,” he murmured, softly enough so that the effusive Frenchman didn’t hear. “Ensure that none of his things remain when he leaves. He needs no excuse to return here to bother Hermione.”

Kreacher nodded and shuffled off. 

Panacea groaned, finally having finished her tea while easily ignoring the small drama that had taken place at the dining table. “God save Neville Longbottom for these bloomin’ fantastic hangover potions. They work better than mine.” 

Hermione grinned at the other young woman. “Feel better, then?”

“Amazin’. I’m starving. What do we have for breakfast?” She opened her eyes, flicked her curls back and sat up, looking as spritely as fairy on a flower. “Ooooh! These eggs look _delicieux!_ ”

“Comme toi, mon amour.” Marcellus lifted Panacea’s hand and kissed it. She giggled.

Malfoy exchanged a glance with Hermione. They both rolled their eyes when the two smooched. 

~*~

She lifted a hand as Marcellus and Panacea walked into the floo, waiting until the green flames had died back to ash. “Malfoy,” she began, rubbing the sleeve of her indigo night gown, “Marcellus’ wand sounds hollow. It reminds me of an empty casket of old wine.”

The silver-haired man paused in the act of gathering his cloak. Kreacher had gone hunting for his socks and shoes, wouldn’t hear a word of using the accio charm. He stared at Hermione as she went to the windows and drew back the curtains. Her shape was outlined in the afternoon light, her curls looking almost-golden in the red shade of the autumn tree outside. He shook himself, hard. 

Clearly, he was still drunk if he was checking Granger out. Again.

Nevertheless, a witch of her talent would not say something like this without cause. As he had been told so many times in his youth, the Sight was not to be trifled with. “What would you like me to do?”

She looked him straight in the eye, the witch light fading as she turned and he was once more struck by how she reminded him of his aunt in these moments. “His wand has the heartstring of a Hungarian Horntail. It is both selfish, vicious, and rotting. It is perfectly in tune with him. I don’t know what to do exactly; but, I do not like him.” 

Malfoy sat on the sapphire blue chaise situated near the fireplace, adjusting one of the many pillows littered around the room. He kept an ear out for the ever grumbling Kreacher. “He knows my father well. They go back, way back- before we were born back.” 

She made a face. “He’s a masochistic, slimeball who thinks much too highly of himself. Panacea would be far better off without him.”

“Panacea’s father was a Voldemort sympathizer, Granger.” Malfoy thanked Kreacher for his shoes, grinning when the elf patted his knee and shambled off. “She has a good heart and didn’t fight in the war- was sent off to Greece by her grandfather. She’s not likely to think less of anyone unless they prove her wrong; but, those old rogues- her father, mine, this genius you just had at your dinner table, they should all be locked up.”

She frowned and he could tell that he had made her very uncomfortable with the knowledge he had just imparted. “What are you saying, Malfoy? _Why_ are you saying this?”

He stood, sliding his cloak over his arm as he grabbed a handful of floo powder. “I wish I knew more, Granger; but, you need to be careful. Potter and Weasley have Auror training, you don’t and while I do not doubt you are quite handy in a fight, the last hold outs of the Dark Lord’s inner circle- those that were allowed to go free,” he sneered, “are more dangerous than any of those that were thrown in Azkaban.”

He shifted as Kreacher came back into the room to stand at Hermione’s side. He held her eyes as he answered. “As for why? I fucked up the last time around. I will not let my family’s name fall again.” 

He stepped into the fireplace and smirked. “Besides, I still have to beat you at fire whiskey shots.”

He threw the powder down and disappeared in a flare of green flame, leaving the witch to sift through her thoughts. 

~*~


	16. Chapter 16

_The history of exploration across nations and across time is not one where nations said, ‘let’s explore because it’s fun.’ It was, ‘Let’s explore so that we can claim lands for our country, so that we can open up new trade routes; let’s explore so we can become more powerful.’ – Neil deGrasse Tyson ___

__There was a wand calling to her. It sounded like…. Stars. Stars on a windless night on an open field of shaded gray-gold grass. She could feel the winter cool of southern lands. Her hair fell over her shoulder as she cocked her head as if able to _hear _the silence of the twinkling of the lights above. Her eyes closed and she could envision the scene, dark, looming mountains in the distance beneath a halo-ridden sky with a full moon. It was a night for seeing, for walking through the tall grass and making witch light to play tricks._ _ __

__

__

__A small smile curled her mouth up as she heard the tinkling of bells in the distance. Her eyes opened and fell on a point through the floor beams. The wand was downstairs, already made._ _

__Ollivander’s eyebrow quirked up. He exchanged a look with the steely-eyed portrait of Gerbold Ollivander and watched as the young witch in his employ followed her Sight to the carved doors and down the rickety stairs. He listened as her footsteps made almost no sound, the better to hear the wand that was hers to match._ _

__Every wand created in the walls of his family’s shop had a story, belonged to a witch or a wizard that would never achieve all they could achieve without it. Only the greatest of wandmakers could claim such clairvoyance and he had thought sadly that he would be the last in England. He should have known, of course that his worries had been for naught._ _

__He listened to her sift through the dusty boxes downstairs, _felt _when she lifted the right one, and wondered if she even knew the limits of her own gift._ _ __

__

__

__“Likely not,” he muttered wanely, his energy suddenly leaving him. The woods of the crafting room blurred in front of his eyes for a moment and he let out a shaky breath. Ruffling his greying, spry hair with one hand, he leaned heavily on his cane as he settled down into the armchair by the window overlooking Diagon Alley. Owls flew by, paying him no mind, carrying their packages and letters easily over the gusts of downtown London winds. After a moment, the spell had passed. He spoke softly to himself as he watched their wings fade into the blue of the autumn sky. “I will need to teach her how to control the call.”_ _

__The portrait nodded in agreement and then turned to the door as her footsteps began to step lightly back up the shaky stairs._ _

__The afternoon sunlight turned her dark curls auburn, her skin white. It emphasized the witchlight in the depths of her brown eyes as she held up the wand box wordlessly. “I do not know the name for this wood… or the core.”_ _

__Ollivander smiled. “It is a wand that I made in my youth, under my grandfather’s guidance when their was great demand for this type of wood in wands.”_ _

__Hermione settled on the small stool next to him. Her mouth turned down into a frown and she waved her wand to get the kettle going over the small fireplace in the corner. “I know who this wand is for.”_ _

__The old man smiled and levitated over a small side table and set of tea cups and creamery set. “I know.”_ _

__Hermione, despite her impatience to learn, stood to get the kettle and tea cozy. The tea sachets had been created by Panacea when she had described Ollivander’s symptoms to her new friend. She set one for him and a separate, muggle one for herself._ _

__Earl grey with lemon was how tea should be properly served in her opinion._ _

__She poured carefully, one hand holding the top of the kettle, the other handle. Ollivander was very peculiar about how tea should be poured. She smiled softly when he allowed the tea to steep to just the right shade of yellow before lifting the tea bag out delicately with a spoon and mixing in one cube of sugar._ _

__He took a long sip, settled back into the armchair, his cane resting by his leg and pinned her with his gaze. “You must have questions.”_ _

__She grinned, sipping her tea without slurping. “The wood of the wand is beautiful. It almost glows silver and the grain is exquisitely fine.”_ _

__“It is silver lime wood, Ms. Granger.” He took another sip of his tea. “It was quite vogue in the nineteenth century and there were a great many families that wished to obtain such wands for their children.”_ _

__“Why?” Her fingers were turning the wand over in its box, examining the elegant scrollwork embellishments on the handle._ _

__“It is a wood that is both undeniably handsome and known for exemplary performances in the most mysterious arts of the magical world- Seeing and Legilimency. To own a silver lime wood wand was to have status because these wands would only respond to those who had the most innate sense of magic.” He paused here, his eyes once more going to the sky outside the window._ _

__“My grandfather,” he pointed his cane to the portrait of a drowsing old man with an impressive top hat, “was the primary wandmaker during the height of demand for these wands. His nemesis Arturo Cephalopos, ignoramus that he was, made a most interesting and curious note about the witches and wizards these wands called to. I can remember the gruffness of his voice when he argued with my grandfather. Only those with true Sight can use these, he shouted. You are a fool to sell them. We will all lose our livelihoods if you do.”_ _

__Hermione’s eyes widened and he saw thoughts bubble to the surface of her mind, astonished once more by her intellect._ _

__“Of course, my grandfather upheld the long tradition of Ollivander’s and only sold wands when they had selected the appropriate witch and wizard. He made a bare 20 of these wands and sold 10 in his lifetime. My father sold 5 more and I have sold only 2. This, will be the third and,” he paused, trailing one long finger over the length of the wood, “it will be a gift for you.”_ _

__She started. “It did not call to me, Ollivander.”_ _

__He laughed. “Ms. Granger. This is your first Calling. When the first happens, we in the Ollivander family, always make it a gift.”_ _

__She blinked, understanding glimmering with tears in the corner of her eyes at the sudden depth of emotion from his affectionate words. “There is power in such things.”_ _

__“Yes, Ms. Granger.” He creaked to his feet, taking the cane she offered as he straightened his back and neck. His next sentence was reproachful. “The core, which you have failed to ask after, is centaur hair. They are known to be inherently great Seers and their blood can imbue one with the ability to read the stars.”_ _

__He pointed to minute, spiraling carvings so fine they blended with the whorls of wood in the handle of the wand. “A centaur’s blood is blue and these carvings were both created by and stained with his blood. His name was Masenze and his collaboration with my grandfather was the only time in the whole known history of wandmaking where such a collaboration has taken place.”_ _

__Hermione’s eyes were wide. “I did not know centaur hair could be used as a wand core.”_ _

__“They do not often agree to it, Ms. Granger. Indeed, it is thought the wandmaker may be cursed if he tries to do so without the full consent of the centaur from whom he has taken the hair.” Ollivander began to shuffle towards the coat stand. “I believe today has been a long enough day, Ms. Granger.”_ _

__She watched as he turned and pinned her with a sharp gaze. “I will be taking tomorrow off. I expect you to close the shop before you go to deliver that wand.”_ _

__She nodded easily, waiting until he had popped away to go about straightening the room._ _

__Within moments she had gathered her cloak and locked the shop. She turned to see it quiet, still, filled with dust motes, with boxes of wands and stories._ _

__She took a breath, flipped her scarf over her shoulder, and apparated to the outskirts of the Forbidden Forest._ _

__~*~_ _


	17. Chapter 17

“He who wishes to fight, must first count the cost.” – Sun Tzu 

 

Hermione apparated on the outskirts of the Forbidden Forest and immediately recoiled, one hand tightening on the box holding the silver lime wand and the other on the handle of her own wand. She kept silent, forcing her breath under control as she shifted quickly behind a tree and crouched, ears open her for the sound of footsteps.

The air smelled like frost and loam here on the rising slopes of the forest; but, underneath the fresh scent, was the odor of blood, an acridity that reminded her of Crucio and darkness. 

“Hermione?” She twitched and her wand was pointed up into the branches of the tree behind her. “Blimey!” the voice whispered furiously. “Get up here.”

Her eyes widened as she recognized the blue eyes staring down at her. Her adrenaline-fueled limbs calmly moved her to a standing position before she even registered the movement. She complied quickly, levitating herself up into the reaches of the tree with a silent charm and flick of her wand. Within seconds, she was crouched above Ron and Harry, staring at them in bewilderment. 

The pair of them shook their heads, glimmers of humor and surprised affection in their eyes, and turned back to listening to the small Extendable Ear in Ron’s grasp. 

“Carrow was picked up yesterday. Aurors in Nigeria managed to ferret him out.” A low voice, gristly and underused. She had heard his voice before- during the battle for Hogwarts, shouting spells against her friends. Her eyes narrowed and unbeknownst to her, witchlight began shining in them once more.

He felt like thorns curling around something warm and wriggling. She shuddered and tried focusing on his wand instead. Twisted elm wood from a cursed tree- it whispered of shadows and madness with a core of a siren’s tail spine. It reminded her abruptly of Diagon Alley during the war when she, Harry, and Ron had apparated there under disguise to break into Gringotts.

“How did they find him? Of all the old supporters, Carrow was one of the most clever. He should not have been caught.” This voice was cultured, a drawl she was very familiar with. Her head cocked to the side as she closed her eyes to listen more closely. What was the elder Malfoy doing out here at the reaches of the Forbidden Forest?

His wand was quiescent- blooded, to be sure; but, not nearly as horrifying as she had expected. Certainly he did not leave an impression even close to the violence of the man he was speaking to. 

Then again, most snakes made no sound until they struck. 

The gristly-voiced man chuckled and the sound drifted up to their spot in the tree. “He was supposed to get caught.”

Malfoy huffed and his next words sounded amused. “Ah, I should have guessed. He’s still looking for him then? That boy from the Turkish salt mines?”

“He’s found him.” Gristly voice beginning to sound irritated and bored, like this conversation was a waste of his time. “The conduit is almost ready as well. He’s done 5, needs 7.”

A chill ran down Hermione’s spine and her face lifted to the wind, the scent of iron and fear coming to her once more. Seven murders- the same number of lives Voldemort had used to create his horcruxes. On the branch below her, Harry and Ron were utterly still.

“Will the boys be attending the soiree?” Lucius’ voice was mild, bland. His voice was fading and beneath it she could hear the crunch of their shoes on the undergrowth.

“Can’t be seen in public anymore, can we?” Gristly voice was almost gone. “Anyway, bye.” 

Two distinct pops and they were gone. 

Ron turned to Harry to speak but Hermione laid her wand on his mouth, head cocked to the side. They weren’t alone yet. 

There, she frowned. Bare yards away was the feel of old anger, rage, and horror reborn. It made her nauseated to focus on it but she forced herself to do it. Malcolm’s wand was not in his hand and whoever it was that was holding it was perfectly in tune with the utter cruelty she had sensed weeks ago. Pine wood with a Hungarian Horntail’s dragon heartstring dripping red. The wand had seen blood again… recently. 

Avada kedavra, it whispered. Crucio. Canterux. Immobulus. 

There was a pop and the feeling was gone so quickly she almost fell out of the tree. Harry caught her wrist and looked at her pale face. 

She ignored him to leap down from the tree and chase the feeling of old blood, hoping that maybe he had left a clue as to his identity. 

He was too close to reaching seven if he already had five. 

When she stopped abruptly, her boys flew around her and stumbled to a halt, gasping her name with incredulity. 

There, in the center of a small clearing, were footprints pooled with blood. It was congealing on the stems of the small downtrodden vines and plants, soaked into the dark earth, and in the shadow of the Forbidden Forest, the horror of the red crept into her skin. 

Her breath started coming faster. She tried to breathe.

Avada kedavra. Crucio. Canterux. Immobulus. Crucio.

 

“Breathe, Hermione. Breathe,” Ron was guiding her away from the footprints, blocking her view with his shoulders. 

She managed to hold her breath and release, counting slowly in her head as Harry took imprints and catalogued the scene. After a moment she looked up into Ron’s eyes. They smiled at each other. “What in Merlin’s name are you two geniuses doing here and did you get my message from Kingsley?”

“Yeah, we got the message. He said Malfoy gave it to you.” Ron spoke while Harry carefully levitated some leaves into a ziploc bag and scribbled something on parchment. “Malfoy is apparently pulling a double agent thing, like what Snape did back in the war. Not sure if I trust it but his info’s been good so far.” 

She blinked at him, running a hand through her curls and grimacing when she found them mussed. “The wand is Malcolm’s from the Hog’s Head.”

Harry stepped over, the evidence bags disappearing into the folds of his cloak. “You think Malcolm is the conduit they’re talking about?”

She shook her head as they both turned and followed Ron down one of the winding paths of the forest. It was silent around them and the scent of loam, the filtered sunlight through the canopy, began to soothe her the farther they got form the site where the murderer had stood. “No. It’s his wand but someone else is using it. He knows something is wrong with it- asked me to fix it around two weeks ago.”

“That’s around when the fourth murder happened.” Ron glanced to the side, frowning at a shadow before continuing on. “We’re almost out of the forest, Hermione. We can go to Hagrid’s and get some good tea.” 

She smiled. They were still so thoughtful. “I have to gift a wand to someone- but I think I’ll wait and do it at sunrise. I don’t want it tainted with what I just saw.”

Harry’s green eyes were curious under his mop of black hair when he looked at her. “What are you talking about? Is this something to do with your apprenticeship with Ollivander?”

She smiled and linked her arm with his as they emerged from the forest at the edge of Hogwarts. They slowly started making their way down to Hagrid’s hut. There was a thin stream of smoke coming from the chimney and Fang was a small, dark blob lounging on the doorstep. “For the first time, a wand showed me who it belonged to. I think it’s a step in the process to mastering the art of wandmaking.”

“The wand chooses the wizard,” Harry murmured softly as Fang’s head came up and he gave a low woof of greeting. They saw his tail start to thump against the door.

She laughed. “You sound like him.”

“He told me that when I first walked into his shop.” Harry pulled out his wand, sleek and perfectly in tune with his magic. “Then, this wand chose me.”

Hagrid opened the door and shouted a greeting upon seeing them. Hermione waved back, her smile stretching from ear to ear. “You had a fate to follow, Harry. The wand knew it, even before you did. That is why it was made you know.” 

Harry blinked at his curly-haired friend as Fang jumped on her shoulders, thoroughly distracting her as she tried to avoid his slobbery kisses. He wondered if she knew she sounded like Ollivander… and even a bit like Dumbledore.

With the way she was speaking, he was beginning to wonder if he should get her some extra protection. After all, Ollivander’s talent had made him a target for the Dark Lord and he had no doubt Hermione was an equal or greater talent than even the kooky old man who had sold him his wand. 

He grinned as Fang turned his attention to him and put his thoughts away for later. Hagrid’s hut smelled like tea and burnt biscuits. 

It was good to be home, if only for a while. 

~*~


End file.
